


(push me) out to sea

by extasiswings



Category: Black Sails, Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, F/M, Golden Age of Piracy, M/M, Multi, Smut, The Author Regrets Everything, Warning: Garbage Choices Ahoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-10-30 10:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10875207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: "This is a terrible idea."(It is. But they don't have much of a choice)[Or, our favorite time travelers end up in Nassau. New friends are made and poor choices abound]





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [qqueenofhades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qqueenofhades/gifts).



> The pirate AU crossover that no one except qqueenofhades really asked for. This was just supposed to be slightly cracky fun. I don't know what happened. Read at your own peril.

“This is a terrible idea.”

Lucy glares at Flynn as she clambers out of the Lifeboat into the sticky heat of Caribbean air.

“I didn’t hear you coming up with a better one,” she shoots back waspishly.

“You didn’t exactly give any of us time to,” he replies. “It was ‘off to Nassau’ as soon as Rittenhouse took out the Mothership, no room for discussion.”

“Well, I’m sorry for not wanting to give Rittenhouse a head start to possibly get their hands on, quite literally, a boatload of stolen Spanish gold. Just because you don’t agree—”

Flynn cuts her off with a derisive snort. “It’s not about whether I agree. It’s about the fact that no one in their right mind is going to believe that your little soldier over there is a pirate,” he says, jerking his head over to where Wyatt’s standing off to the side of the Lifeboat.

“Hey!”

Flynn deliberately flicks his gaze over the other man at the interjection and raises an eyebrow, before turning and starting down the hill without the rest of them.  
Lucy grits her teeth to keep herself from screaming and turns back to Wyatt and Rufus.

“Any chance we can go back in time and not break him out of prison?” Wyatt snarks.

“Unfortunately not,” Rufus adds.

Lucy sighs. “Come on. Let’s go after him before he gets himself killed.”

She pretends not to see the look the two men share that wonders if that would really be so bad.

* * *

It’s almost funny how small and interconnected the world is on Nassau. In the end, they find who they’re looking for almost by accident.

It’s a hell of a trek from where they’ve stashed the Lifeboat into town, but by whatever stretch of luck they come across what looks like a kidnapping attempt gone awry on the main road. There’s one man in the middle of three, at least two of whom Lucy recognizes as Rittenhouse. The man seems to be holding his own fairly well, but it doesn’t hurt when Flynn steps in, not bothering with fists or a sword and instead pulling the semi-automatic he’s stashed in the back of his pants. Three shots and it’s over, and the man who had been at the middle of the fight looks at Flynn with suspicion, not returning his sword to his belt even as blood from a cut on his forehead drips down his face.

“Who the fuck are you?” The man pants. “And what the hell kind of pistol is that?”

Lucy almost groans when Flynn just shrugs. “Mine,” he replies. “And you’re welcome for the save, by the way.”

“We’re new to the area,” Lucy interjects. “I’m Lucy Preston, this is Garcia Flynn, and our other companions are Wyatt Logan and Rufus Carlin.”

“Captain James Flint,” he replies, and Lucy has to tell herself not to react to meeting someone of Treasure Island fame. At least, not while he and Flynn are still staring one another down with suspicion.

“Were you heading into town, Captain Flint?” She asks before Flynn can say anything else antagonistic. “It’s only that we’re heading that way as well and there may be more of those men about.”

Flint’s jaw ticks as his eyes flicker away from her for the briefest of moments. It’s clear he doesn’t trust them—not that she would expect him to—and from the look on his face, he wasn’t going to town but isn’t willing to risk leading anyone else to his destination.

“Strength in numbers then? Is that your suggestion?”

“It would seem to be the wisest thing to do,” she replies. “After all, there are four of us and one of you. If there are more of those men, they won’t take kindly to their companions being dispatched.”

“If I may say, you seem awfully knowledgeable about them for someone who claims to have only just arrived,” Flint says.  
“We may have come across them once or twice,” Lucy acknowledges, closing her eyes briefly when Flynn snorts derisively at her side. _For fuck’s sake, don’t make this worse_ , she thinks.

“They belong to a collective called Rittenhouse,” Flynn explains. “Not good men, even by pirate standards. You’d do well to steer clear of them.”

“I see,” Flint replies. Then, he turns and starts off down the road, pausing after a moment to look back at the four of them. “You coming, or what?”

They follow.

* * *

The tavern Flint leads them into is dark and crowded, but someone spots them as soon as they walk through the door.

“Captain!”

“Mr. Gates,” Flint greets quietly.

“We weren’t expecting you back so soon,” the older man says. “I thought you’d gone off to see Mrs. Barlow—”

Flint shakes his head and cuts his eyes to Lucy, Flynn, Wyatt, and Rufus. Gates changes gears immediately.

“Who have we here?”

“Ran into a spot of trouble on the road,” Flint explains. “These four were…kind enough to help me out.”

“New to the island, are you?” Gates asks them. “I don’t recall seeing you around.”

“We are, yes,” Lucy replies. “Formerly of Boston.”

A look passes between Flint and Gates that she can’t decipher, but the next moment, the older man claps his captain on the shoulder and nods.

“Well, I hope you enjoy your time here,” he says. “Good evening.”

All of them except Flint watch Gates as he exits the tavern—the moment the door closes, Wyatt leans into her side.

“We’re going to see if anyone else has run into Rittenhouse,” Wyatt says quietly, gesturing between himself and Rufus. “Do you…?”

“I’ll be fine with Flynn,” she replies. It’s clear by the look he gives her that he has his doubts about that, but he doesn’t argue.

(After all, Flynn is, theoretically, part of their team. And no matter how he may be acting of late, he hasn’t let whatever animosity he may bear prevent him from protecting her when necessary. The boys might be wary, but Lucy trusts that he’ll keep her safe at least)

“We won’t go far,” Wyatt assures, before he and Rufus turn and vanish into the dim-lit room.

From there, it takes approximately an hour for everything to go to hell in a handbasket. It starts with a member of Vane’s crew mistaking Lucy for a lady of the night and ends in an alley brawl involving Vane’s men and more Rittenhouse members. One of the Rittenhouse men grabs Lucy and she winds up knocked out with a cut on her forehead.

It’s a fucking mess.

When Lucy comes to, she’s in a bed in a dark room and Flynn and Flint are arguing.

“We need to get her somewhere safe,” Flynn says.

“I don’t know you. I don’t know Miss Preston. And I’m not going to endanger my own people for a few strangers,” Flint shoots back.

“You’re seeking the Urca de Lima.”

In the blink of an eye, Flint has his cutlass drawn, the tip of it pressed to Flynn’s throat. For his part, Flynn looks entirely unconcerned by this turn of events.

“How the fuck would you know that?”

“Would you believe that we’re time travelers from the future?” A small bead of red appears on Flynn’s throat when Flint applies more pressure to the blade. “It doesn’t matter,” Flynn continues. “Find Miss Preston a safe place to stay and I’ll tell you where it’s going to be. Or don’t, and maybe I’ll tell Captain Vane instead.”

“Or, I could kill you and then you wouldn’t be able to tell anyone anything.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Garcia,” Lucy interrupts, coughing just afterwards at the dryness of her throat.

Something passes over his face, but she doesn’t fully catch it since he hasn’t looked away from Flint.

(It’s arguably the only smart thing he’s done in the whole conversation—not looking away from the person with a blade to his neck)

Whatever it is, Flint sees it though, and something—recognition, compassion maybe—flickers briefly across his features before he lowers his hand.

“Fine,” he says. “I know a place.”

* * *

Miranda Barlow is a lovely woman—that’s Lucy’s first thought at least. Her second is that clearly she’s not to be underestimated—any woman who handles Flint the way she does is obviously a force to be reckoned with.

“She’ll be safe here?” Flynn asks Flint. The other man rolls his eyes.

“I said she would be, didn’t I? Now, tell me about the Urca.”

“I’ll tell you just as soon as I can be sure we’ve wiped out the rest of those men from earlier,” Flynn replies.

“Why, you—”

“James—”

“Flynn—”

The two men stop, Flint removing his hand from his sword at the hint of admonishment in Miranda’s voice. Lucy looks to the other woman to find her looking back, a hint of amusement in her eyes.

“No bloodshed in my parlor, please,” Miranda says lightly. “From what I understand, Miss Preston here has had a rather trying day. No need to make it worse with your bickering.”

“Mr. Flynn,” she turns her attention to him and he straightens under her scrutiny. “I assure you, Miss Preston will come to no harm here.”

“I—thank you, Mrs. Barlow.”

“James? A word?”

The pair of them vanish into the next room, the air somehow becoming more awkward now that Lucy is alone with Flynn without any threats around.

“You’re bleeding,” she says after a moment, gesturing to a thin scratch on his cheek.

“It’s nothing,” Flynn replies.

“It’s not nothing,” Lucy insists. “It’s—I—I may not remember what happened, but I know that you saved me. So…thank you.”

For once she seems to have Flynn at a loss, so much so that he looks almost relieved when Miranda and Flint return.

“All right then, Flynn,” Flint says. “We’ll find these men you’re after. But then you’re going to tell me about that ship.”

“Fair enough.”

* * *

“Tell me about your Mr. Flynn.”

It’s been some time since the two men left the house—they’d originally passed the time looking through Miranda’s book collection, but as the sun started to go down, Lucy decided to turn away from trying to decipher small and sometimes handwritten print. There had been a pleasant silence before Miranda’s statement, and Lucy starts at the new sound as much as she does at implication inherent in Miranda’s phrasing, something far more intimate than she would ever apply to herself and Flynn.

“He’s not—we’re not—”

Miranda doesn’t interrupt, her gaze kind and steady, but Lucy struggles for words anyway.

“He doesn’t think of me that way,” she settles on, all too aware of what it means that she doesn’t apply the reverse to herself. “The people who attacked Captain Flint, who tried to kidnap me, they killed his wife and daughter. And we may be working together now, but if anything he blames me for keeping him from his revenge.”

There’s no way to explain it all without delving fully into the fact that they’re time travelers, and as much as she likes Miranda, she’s not entirely comfortable with the thought of spilling everything from the past year to a stranger.

“Once, I thought maybe—” Lucy cuts herself off, shaking her head. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.”

(She forces her mind away from the way he’d looked at her in 1780, in 1893, in 1954, in 2017…she can’t think about those things when he hasn’t looked at her that way since the arrest)

To her surprise, Miranda laughs. It’s a quiet thing, and a little sad, but it’s a laugh nonetheless.

“You remind me so much of myself,” she says. “And Mr. Flynn, well…James has that same darkness in him. Wildness and rage born of loss and pain and bitterness. He would burn down the whole of the British Empire if he could. And I wouldn’t blame him, because there are days I’d give almost anything to do the same.”

“I didn’t used to understand,” Lucy confesses. “I wanted to believe there were better ways of dealing with things. But now—now I understand why he does the things he does. I don’t always agree, but I understand.”

(And if she’s honest, she can understand exactly what Miranda is saying, because there are days she would give anything to scream and rage and burn Rittenhouse down as well)

“That kind of darkness…it isn’t sustainable,” Miranda says. “Not forever at least. It’s important that they have places to shed that part of themselves. Places…or people to lean on.”

“Is that what you are to Flint?” Lucy asks.

Miranda tips her head in consideration. “I like to think this house is a refuge of sorts. That I am. Not that James is likely to ever say it, but he doesn’t need to.”

“I don’t think I can be that for Flynn,” Lucy replies. “I don’t think he’d let me. Not after everything that happened between us.”

“I think you already are,” Miranda corrects gently. “From what James told me and what I observed myself, well…a man doesn’t act the way Mr. Flynn does about you unless he’s in love. And if I’m not mistaken, you feel the same.”

Lucy wants to deny it, but the words stick in her throat. 

Love? Her and Flynn? No. He doesn’t—and she—no, she couldn’t.

“You should rest, my dear,” Miranda suggests when the silence has dragged on too long. “You look exhausted.”

“Yes, I—yes,” Lucy agrees. “I should sleep.”

Miranda doesn’t say another word, but the damage, so to speak, has been done. 

_Love? Could it be?_

When Lucy closes her eyes to sleep, she tries not to think about the voice in the back of her mind whispering _yes_.


	2. ii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wyatt and Rufus make a new friend of their own. Or, possibly, more than a friend.

“I don’t understand why I’m not getting anywhere,” Wyatt grumbles. “No one will talk to me. No one. How are we supposed to find out if Rittenhouse has been trying to connect with anyone if no one will talk to me?”

Rufus coughs. “Uh, well…”

“What?”

“Far be it from me to say that Flynn has a point about anything, but, uh, it’s true that you don’t exactly look like a pirate.”

Wyatt looks down at himself and then back at Rufus, narrowing his eyes. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Rufus makes a face. “You’re just a little…pretty. For a pirate.”

“You think I’m too _pretty_ to be a pirate?” Wyatt replies incredulously.

“Well now, I wouldn’t say that,” another voice comes before Rufus can respond. The new man is tall, has long black hair tied back with a ribbon, and several pistols on his person. “Not, however, that I can disagree with the sentiment.”

Rufus chokes on a laugh and covers his mouth with his hand as Wyatt blinks in surprise.

“I—who, uh, who are you?” He stammers.

The man grins, his eyes sparkling in the low light, and sets his forearms on the table as he leans in.

“Sam Bellamy,” he introduces. “ _Captain_ Sam Bellamy, as a matter of fact. And you are?”

Wyatt’s voice sticks in his throat and Rufus blessedly jumps in.

“I’m Rufus, he’s Wyatt. We’re new to the island.”

“I thought you might be,” Sam acknowledges with a nod to Rufus before flashing another devastating smile at Wyatt. “I would have remembered a face like yours.”

For his part, Rufus looks like Christmas has just come early. Wyatt, on the other hand, is thrown.

This isn’t Lucy’s grandfather checking him out in 1954, which he could disregard easily because, well, it’s a little strange to be checked out by a relative of the woman you have feelings for. No, this is a young, and admittedly rather attractive pirate captain blatantly flirting with him in the early 18th century, and if Wyatt’s honest with himself it’s…not exactly unwanted.

(Not that he doesn’t still have feelings for Lucy, but it’s abundantly clear the longer Flynn stays with them that the two of them have something that he’s not sure he would want to get in the middle of even if he could)

Swallowing hard, Wyatt lets his eyes wander over the line of Sam’s neck, the open collar of his shirt, and when he meets Sam’s gaze again, the other man’s eyes are a little darker than before.

“Well, I certainly would have remembered yours,” Wyatt replies, ignoring the way Rufus muffles another cough at his side.

Sam looks delighted.

“Can I buy the two of you a drink?” He offers. “As a…welcome to the island?”

“Only if that’s not all it is.” The words trip off Wyatt’s tongue before he can call them back, although he can’t quite regret them when heat flashes in Sam’s eyes and his lips curl up too slowly to be anything but deliberate.

“It can be whatever you’d like it to be,” Sam replies, before pushing off the table and disappearing from view.

Rufus turns to stare at him. “ _Dude_.”

Wyatt’s face heats and he leans back against the hard bench. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a—for once, Lucy’s not the one getting hit on by historical figures, and apparently you have serious game. This is everything,” Rufus corrects.

“I was married, you know,” Wyatt points out. “I know how to flirt.”

“I’ll say.”

There’s a commotion outside, the sound of which slips somewhat into the tavern, but they’re too far from the door to hear exactly what it is. None of the other patrons stir, so it’s likely not an uncommon occurrence. Besides which, Sam returns a moment later, sliding onto the bench next to Wyatt and passing two weather-beaten mugs to him and Rufus, and the commotion is quickly forgotten.

* * *

“You should come back to my ship,” Sam murmurs, somewhere just under an hour later. Wyatt is highly aware of the attention Rufus is paying them, but he’s pleasantly warm from Caribbean rum, and Sam’s fingers are brushing against his thigh beneath the table, light enough that it could be an accident if it weren’t for the look in his eyes.

It’s a terrible idea.

(He doesn’t want to say no)

Wyatt wets his lips, trying not to notice the way Sam’s eyes track the movement of his tongue.

“I—”

“Mr. Logan, Mr. Carlin—” The older man from earlier—Gates, Wyatt thinks his name was—is nearly out of breath as he leans against the table. “Captain Flint requested that I inform you your companions were caught up in that mess earlier. He and Mr. Flynn are in the process of removing Miss Preston to somewhere she’ll be more comfortable.”

It’s as though someone’s dropped ice down the back of his shirt. 

“What happened?” Wyatt demands. “Is she okay? Is she hurt?”

“My understanding is that she was somewhat injured, but nothing that will cause any lasting damage.”

“I—” Wyatt glances between Rufus, Gates, and Sam. “Can you take us to her? Or at least to Flynn?”

“That’s why I’m here,” the older man replies.

There’s nothing much to be said after that. Wyatt meets Sam’s eyes again when he moves to stand, but he can’t think of anything to say, instead simply squeezing the other man’s hand quickly before following Rufus and Gates out of the tavern.

They get as far as the alley between the tavern and the brothel before being stopped. 

“Wyatt!”

Wyatt turns at the sound of his name, only to come face to face with Sam. Before he can come up with anything to say, however, he’s being kissed.

His mind goes blank, hands stalling in the air for a moment before settling on the lapels of Sam’s jacket. For his part, Sam has an arm around his waist, his other hand curled around the back of Wyatt’s neck.

It’s good—god, is it good—hot and rough and thrilling, almost more of a claim than a kiss. With the exception of his kiss with Lucy to appease Bonnie and Clyde, it’s the first time he’s kissed anyone since Jessica died. Somehow that doesn’t hurt as much as he expects it to.

Wyatt’s panting and slightly stunned when Sam pulls back, but the other man just grins.

“Couldn’t let you go without showing you what you’ll be missing,” he says. “I do hope your friend is all right.”

He’s gone before Wyatt can find his voice again. When he turns, Rufus is staring.

“Dude.”

“Yeah,” Wyatt rasps, fingers coming to his lips as he looks off in the direction Sam disappeared. “Yeah, I know.”


	3. iii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Garbage Choices are made.

It hits Lucy as soon as she wakes up that they’ve been missing the point ever since they arrived.

“I can’t stay here,” she tells Miranda as soon as she throws her clothes from the day before back on. “I have to find my friends. I have to tell them—”

“Slow down, dear,” Miranda interrupts, setting her hands on Lucy’s shoulders. “Take a breath, start over. What’s the matter?”

“It’s not about me,” Lucy says. “It was never about me. Well, maybe they wanted me out of the way so I would be safe, but it wasn’t about me or the gold or any of it.”

“How do you know?”

Lucy worries her skirt between her fingers, her thoughts racing. “When we met Captain Flint yesterday, he was being attacked. There’s no reason for Rittenhouse to try and kill him, not if the gold was their goal. And then they infiltrated Captain Vane’s crew when they didn’t succeed, or at least the two that tried to grab me did. There could be others and we don’t know where they are,” she explains. “I think…I think they might be with other crews on the island. And I think all the captains of those crews are in danger.”

Miranda looks thoughtful, but Lucy’s unsure if she’s convinced. She presses on.

“If all the captains died suddenly, it would cause chaos. Who knows how long it would take things to settle. And in the meantime, they could do whatever they wanted.”

“James left you in my care,” Miranda says. “And I made a promise to Mr. Flynn that nothing would happen to you.”

“They won’t hurt me,” Lucy assures, even though her stomach drops at the thought. “Even if they were to grab me again, they wouldn’t. And I have to warn my friends—Miranda, please. It’s worth the risk.”

They leave within the hour.

* * *

Back in town, Flynn paces around Eleanor Guthrie’s office above the tavern, left empty for him, Flint, Wyatt, and Rufus when she had gone out for the day.

“If they’ve integrated themselves into Vane’s crew, why don’t we just talk to him?” Rufus asks. “Wouldn’t he want to know?”

Flint snorts in the corner and slices off a sliver of the apple in his hand with a knife. “Charles Vane isn’t exactly the talking type,” he replies. “And even if he were to be in the mood for it, he wouldn’t talk to a trio of strangers.”

“You couldn’t do it?”

“Vane and I don’t exactly have the most amicable relationship. Not that there are many people who could claim otherwise.”

“What about Sam Bellamy?” Wyatt’s tone is casual, but Rufus coughs to cover his surprise.

“Who?” Flynn asks.

“Captain we met last night,” Wyatt replies. “He seemed like a good sort. The kind of guy it’s hard not to like.”

Something strange passes over Flint’s face, but none of them feel the need to comment on it, at least not when he speaks a moment later.

“Bellamy…yes, that could work,” Flint acknowledges. “Out of anyone on this island apart from occasionally Miss Guthrie, he’s likely to have the best chance of getting through that conversation unscathed. His ship’s still in the harbor, but we’d have to find him.”

“I think Wyatt could probably manage that,” Rufus says. For his part, Wyatt ducks his head to hide the way his cheeks flush and shoots his friend a dirty look.

_So not the time_.

“Remind me why we can’t just hunt the bastards down and kill them?” Flynn growls. Whatever had happened the night before, it’s clearly under his skin. Not that Wyatt’s surprised given that, from what he understands, Rittenhouse had almost gotten to Lucy.

(And despite whatever Flynn may try to portray, it’s obvious to all of them that while he may not care about Wyatt or Rufus, he’d tear down anyone who laid a finger on Lucy, no matter how angry he is with her. It’s one of the few comforts Wyatt takes in their partnership—that at least Flynn cares about her as much as he does)

“Because although you may not care what happens during your time here, some of us have to do business on this island on a regular basis,” Flint replies. “Shockingly, casual murder of members of other crews doesn’t tend to garner you many favors.”

“If it was for Mrs. Barlow—”

“Well, it’s not,” Flint snaps, and Wyatt deliberately refrains from interrupting the silence that falls as Flint and Flynn glare at one another.

“Uh, who is—” Rufus starts, only to cut himself off when Flint turns his glare on him. “Nevermind. I don’t need to know.”

Wyatt clears his throat after another moment of silence. “So, Sam then? That’s our plan?”

Flynn’s jaw ticks and he crosses his arms over his chest as Flint cuts off another apple sliver. 

“I know of a few places he might be if he hasn’t gone back to the Whydah,” the captain offers up. “We’ll find him faster if we split up though.”

“Great!” Rufus agrees. “I’ll stick with Wyatt. You two can continue doing...whatever it is you’ve been doing.”

Given the tension that still hasn’t dissipated, and the fact that Flint and Flynn are far too similar for his comfort, Wyatt understands that reaction completely. He certainly wouldn’t volunteer to spend time with either one of them at the moment.

“Start with the beach,” Flint replies when the two of them start towards the door. “It’s the most likely place.”

“Got it.”

Rufus exhales audibly once the door is shut behind them. “Well, that was...I don’t think fun is the right word.”

“No, I think you’re right about that,” Wyatt agrees.

No sooner have the words left him when Flint’s voice comes, muffled but still loud enough to be heard through the thin wall.

“Throw Mrs. Barlow in my face like that again, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

“I think that’s our cue,” Rufus whispers.

“Yep.”

* * *

When it comes down to it, finding Sam is surprisingly easy. Although, admittedly the circumstances aren’t exactly expected.

Wyatt and Rufus stumble across the fight by accident on their way to the beach after a clash of metal is followed by what sounds concerningly like a modern gunshot. They only take long enough to share a look before Wyatt’s off like a shot, drawing his own gun from where he’d tucked it in the back of his pants.

“Hey!” He shouts, when he skids into the narrow lane to find Sam and his assailant, the former with a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, the latter with a semi-automatic and looking too clean to be a regular resident.

Rittenhouse.

Wyatt fires without thinking, and the man falls before he can get off a shot of his own. He makes sure to take the man’s gun and flick the safety on before turning to Sam.

“Are you okay?” Even as he asks, his eyes are searching the pirate captain from head to toe, looking for any sign of injury. 

_Don’t be hurt, don’t be hurt, don’t be hurt—_

Sam’s cheek is bleeding from what looks to be a bullet graze and his hair is coming out of its tie, scattered strands falling into his eyes. He otherwise looks unhurt though, for which Wyatt is grateful. He’s not sure he would want to attempt any significant first aid in this century. 

“I am,” Sam acknowledges. “Thanks to you. Hell of a pistol you’ve got there. Not one I’ve seen before. Well, apart from on him that is.”

He nods towards the dead Rittenhouse agent and Wyatt tucks away both his and the other gun before Sam can get a better look at either.

(After 1780, he’s a little wary of letting historical figures look at his weaponry. As useful as his guns are, he’s not oblivious to the concerns inherent in bringing them along on these trips)

“Special make,” he replies. “French, I think.”

Sam doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press after Wyatt brings a hand to his cheek, his thumb tracing the line of the graze.

“We should clean this,” he says.

“It’s just a scratch,” Sam assures. “I hardly felt it.”

“Still,” Wyatt replies. Sam’s lips curve up and Wyatt withdraws his hand.

“Worried about me are you?”

“Well, I can’t say I was expecting to find you on the other end of a gun when I went looking for you.”

Sam’s smile widens. “Oh, you were looking for me? Business or pleasure?”

And just like that, Wyatt’s back to being tongue-tied. “I—uh, Captain Flint said—”

“Ah, Flint,” Sam sighs. “So, both then.” 

Wyatt blinks once, twice, recalls the look that had passed over Flint’s face when he’d mentioned Sam earlier, and decides he doesn’t actually want to ask. 

“My friend—the one I went off to see last night—she was attacked by men that are probably acquaintances of that one,” he explains, gesturing at the man on the ground. “But there’s a bit of a problem, mainly that they seem to have joined Charles Vane’s crew.”

Sam makes a face, then winces when it pulls at the graze on his cheek. “You want me to talk to Charles Vane,” he fills in. 

“Yes,” Wyatt acknowledges. “Yeah, that’s about it.”

“Well, that’s no fun at all,” he says lightly. “What do I get if I do?” 

The look in his eyes tells Wyatt that he’s teasing, but well, Wyatt isn’t exactly one to turn down a challenge, even an implied one. 

Sliding a hand into Sam’s hair, Wyatt pulls the other man into a kiss not unlike the one from the night before. Sam makes a small sound of surprise, but returns the kiss readily. Wyatt only pulls back once air becomes a necessity, and Sam’s grin is blinding.

“Will that do?”

“Will that make up for having to spend time in Vane’s company?” Sam clarifies, his eyes dancing. “Kiss me like that again afterwards and it just might.”

“Well then. Let’s get going.”

* * *

Miranda and Lucy arrive at the tavern just in time to run into Flynn and Flint, both of whom look varying degrees of disgruntled—moods which do not seem to be improved by the appearance of the two women.

“What are you doing here, Lucy?” Flynn demands.

“I needed to talk to you,” she replies. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Miranda take Flint’s arm and turn him back towards the steps. “It was important.”

“More important than your safety? Because that was the entire reason I convinced Flint to take you to Mrs. Barlow’s in the first place. So you would be out of the way and the rest of us could focus on taking care of Rittenhouse without having to worry about saving you.”

His caustic tone grates at her nerves and Lucy tamps down on the frustration that rises inside her as she pushes past him and into the office just off the staircase. He’s been like this ever since they broke him out of prison, and honestly, she’s tired of it. If he were just mad at her, that would be one thing. But he’ll have moments like the night before where he’ll be normal, where he’ll show that he might actually care about her, and then he’ll immediately counter that by being exponentially worse than usual. It’s nearly enough to give her whiplash.

“If saving me is such an inconvenience for you, you could stop siding with me instead of Rufus every time the four of us split up. Or, you could just stop saving me. Problem solved.”

“Because that would certainly go over well with the other two members of your little golden trio,” Flynn scoffs.

“Oh my god, why do you have to be such an asshole all the time?” Lucy asks, throwing up her hands. “We could be friends, you know. All of us. But no, you push us all away constantly. Isn’t that exhausting?”

“It’s a little difficult to be friends with people when you don’t trust that they won’t betray you,” he shoots back.

“How many times do I have to apologize for that, Flynn?” She shouts. “I didn’t know. It wasn’t my fault, but I’m sorry anyway because it hurt you and I never wanted that. And you know what, you can be mad at me, that’s fine. But don’t—”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t keep vacillating between hating me and caring and then being even more of an ass because you cared for two seconds. Just pick one.”

“Vacillating?” Flynn repeats. “Always the professor, Lucy.”

God, she could scream.

"Miranda thinks you're in love with me," Lucy says before she can think better of it. She immediately wishes she could take it back when Flynn's face goes utterly blank.

"And you thought...what? That a woman who's spent ten minutes with us might have an accurate read on the situation?" From the derision in his voice, it's readily apparent what his opinion is on that.

It’s not a conversation she’d been planning on having, but after her talk with Miranda, after the past few weeks in general, after she’d already started…well, she’s damn well going to have it now.

“It’s not just that,” Lucy says as Flynn turns to walk out the door. “I read the journal.”

Flynn freezes.

“I read the journal,” she repeats, taking a step closer to him. “I know what it says about you. About…us.”

“And?” Flynn asks, turning to face her. “It’s not gospel, Lucy. It might as well be fiction for the amount of accuracy in it. It doesn’t matter what it says.”

And that, right there, is exactly why she hadn’t brought it up before, why she’d doubted herself and him, even after her conversation with Miranda. The idea that even if the journal was written by her, came from the future...well, it might not have been written by this version of her. It might not have been written about this version of him. And even if they’re the same people, that’s no guarantee the future is set in stone.

(But, god, she’d just wanted this to all be out in the open)

“Why give it to me then?” Lucy demands. “You knew what it said. If you didn’t want me to read it, you could have just kept it. You expect me to believe you gave it to me because you feel nothing?”

“I didn’t need it anymore.”

“That can’t be the only reason.”

“What do you want from me, Lucy?”

They’ve gravitated closer, so close that it would be all too easy to press her fingers to the bare skin revealed by his shirt, close enough that the heat of him is distracting. Her mouth goes dry.

(What does she want from him? She wants him to acknowledge this thing between them. She wants him to forgive her for the arrest. She wants him to kiss her so she can know firsthand what it feels like instead of reading about it in scattered phrases on a page. She wants…)

Flynn’s eyes darken and in an instant he’s spun her around so her back is to his chest.

“Is this what you want?” His voice drops as he bends as if to kiss her neck, close enough that his every exhale makes her want to shiver, but still not quite making contact.

“I—” Lucy’s breath catches as the arm he doesn’t have locked around her waist slips down, his hand curving over her hip, sliding over her thigh, fingers curling into the fabric of her skirt. 

“Is it?” Flynn repeats as he slowly drags her skirt up, his mouth barely brushing the edge of her jaw.

Is it? It’s certainly not where she was expecting this discussion to lead, but maybe...maybe it wouldn’t be so bad it the tension between them could be worked out in a way that isn’t shouting at one another.

His hand slips beneath the fabric and curves around her thigh, then pauses.

“You have to tell me, Lucy.” His voice is practically a caress in itself, a purr in her ear, and she does shiver then, her eyes slipping shut as her head falls back against his chest.

_Would it be so bad?_

“Yes,” Lucy breathes.

The angle isn’t the best, but Flynn’s fingers are long and dexterous and he doesn’t seem at all hindered in his goal of making her fall to pieces. She bites off a gasp of his name when he finds her clit and then dips lower, stretching and stroking and curling into all of the places she needs him. 

“If this is what you wanted, you could have said so from the beginning,” Flynn murmurs. There’s something in his tone that seems off, that makes her want to say something, but his fingers stroke up to circle around her clit and the thought leaves her mind as she comes shuddering against his hand.

“Garcia—”

As quickly as he’d moved earlier, he releases her—fast enough that she almost loses her balance given how much she’d been relying on him to stay upright.

“You wanted to know what I feel, Lucy?” His face is blank again, and her stomach drops. “Nothing. I don’t love you, I don’t need you, I don’t need anything except to do everything I can to take down Rittenhouse.”

Flynn turns towards the door—Lucy wants to say something, but she’s gone cold, her tongue heavy as if it were made of lead or stuffed full of cotton. She can’t make it work.

“Forget about the journal,” he says. “It’s just a story.”

The door doesn’t slam behind him, but in some ways she wishes it had. Somehow the quiet click of it feels far more final.


	4. iv.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which conversations are had and Flynn regrets everything.

Flynn stalks down the stairs, past Flint and Miranda, and Miranda sighs. 

"Oh dear," she murmurs, casting a glance up to the next level to see if Lucy's followed. She hasn't. "That didn't look promising, did it?"

No, it hadn't. The look on Flynn's face had been an all too recognizable one for Flint—regret and shame warring with vindication—and whatever had happened in Eleanor's office, Flint would be willing to bet it didn't involve discussing Lucy's reason for coming into town. 

Lucy Preston and Garcia Flynn...it's strange to look at them, like looking in a mirror but not. They're not an exact copy of him and Miranda—no, right now the reflection is clouded, distorted—but the edges are there. 

(It's one of the only reasons Flint hadn't put Flynn to the sword last night for speaking to him the way he had)

Miranda's hand on his arm pulls Flint out of his thoughts. 

"I'm going to see what the damage is," she says. 

(If the comparisons he's been making are accurate, the damage is likely extensive)

Flint stares after Flynn as Miranda slips away, then swears internally and follows. 

(It's not his responsibility, and yet it feels like it is)

He finds the other man at the back of the tavern, far away from anyone who might want to disturb him. The look on his face has faded, exhaustion and resignation taking its place, but he tries to recover it when he notices Flint's approach. 

"Whatever victory you think you just won, I hope it was worth it," Flint says, leaning against a nearby pillar. 

"Don't you have somewhere better to be?" Flynn replies, leveling him with a dark look. 

"Miranda went to fix your mess. So no."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Flint challenges. "You expect me to believe you didn't just do something monumentally stupid with the aim of lashing out at the woman you love?"

Flynn's jaw clenches. "I'm not in love with her," he says. "And it would be better for all of us if you and Mrs. Barlow would stop giving her that idea."

Flint stares blankly for a moment wondering if he himself has ever been quite this much of a failure. At least where Miranda is concerned, he's fairly certain the answer is no. 

"Is that what you told her, then?" He asks, his answer coming from the way Flynn doesn't respond rather than through any way that he does. Flint snorts. "Wow. You're a goddamn idiot."

"You don't know anything about it," Flynn snarls. "You don't know what she's done, what I've lost—"

"Do you think you're the only person in the world who's ever lost someone?" Flint interrupts. "You're not. I know all too well what it's like to want to raze nations to the ground, to topple cities and murder my way through every person who has ever crossed me. But there are some people you don't take that out on. And from what I've observed of the two of you, Miss Preston certainly falls into that category."

"You don't know—"

"I don't give a shit what she's done," Flint snaps. "She's not your enemy. But if you keep treating her like she is, you really will lose everything."

That cracks the cool mask Flynn's been trying to maintain and Flint almost feels guilty when he catches a glimpse of the sheer anguish hidden beneath. Almost. 

(The upside of being so similar is that Flint knows exactly where to hit, knows how to read the act, to strip it down to nothing. It's uncomfortable—if he hadn't had Miranda, he could easily have become the man in front of him, cutting himself off from everything or everyone that might make him vulnerable again, nowhere to rest from his seemingly endless crusade of vengeance. But he does have Miranda, and he's not sure he's ever been quite so grateful for that as now, when he has the alternative standing in front of him)

"I don't know if I can forgive her," Flynn says finally. His voice is hollow, exhausted, burned out, and Flint is sure that if he were to catch his eyes he would read the same thing in them. 

"I've found there's very little, if anything, I wouldn't forgive Miranda for," Flint acknowledges, dropping his own voice. "Comes with the territory of her being the only person who can understand."

Flint tips his head and looks at Flynn carefully when the other man shifts and looks harder at the ground. 

"Unless that's not what you're really worried about," he adds. 

"I don't know if she can forgive me," Flynn admits. "I—the way I've acted, the things I said—"

"Then she doesn't forgive you," Flint shrugs. Flynn lifts his head then in surprise and Flint cocks an eyebrow. "What? Were you expecting me to assure you that everything will be fine? I may not know exactly what you did or said, and if she really is anything like Miranda, it likely won't matter if you apologize enough. But if you think it was unforgivable, it probably was. And I'd be willing to bet that if she didn't forgive you, she'd be very much in the right."

Flynn slumps against the wall and runs a hand over his face. 

"I can't love her," he says quietly. "I don't—I wasn't supposed to love anyone except my wife."

Flint opens his mouth to tell him that he can move on...but promptly shuts it. Even in his mind, the words feel false. Hollow. An empty platitude. 

Because he hasn't moved on. Miranda hasn't moved on. Not really. They were lucky enough to have had each other as well as Thomas, but they haven't managed to fill the space he left in their lives. Not even with Sam. 

(Especially not with Sam, who for all his virtues deserves better than to be anyone's replacement, even if Flint wants to be selfish, even though there are moments when he reminds Flint of Thomas so badly he can't breathe)

So, he can't tell Flynn to move on, as if it's simple. But, he can tell him the truth as he sees it. 

"You do though," Flint replied. "You do."

Flynn closes his eyes and tips his head back, and for a split second Flint imagines he might be praying. 

"I lost everything," Flynn sighs. "I lost everything and I was so alone. But then I had a piece of her, of Lucy. And then I had all of her, and she was brilliant and strong and good, and I didn't feel nearly as alone anymore."

"She was a light in the darkness," Flint fills in, and Flynn's mouth twists. 

"She was a light in the darkness," he echoes. "And yet the closer I got to her the more I was afraid. Because I don't know who I am, what I am, without the dark, the rage, all of it. And I think she could take that from me. Or worse, maybe I could consume her instead."

Flint runs his tongue over his teeth, glances down at the floor, crosses his arms—anything to give him more time to come up with something to say. He's plenty good at speeches, but not where things like this are concerned, and it would be easy to misstep. 

"The thing about women," Flint says, "is that I've found they're not to be underestimated. They're almost always stronger than we think. And making decisions for them without their input doesn't ever tend to go well. So maybe try not doing that for once and see how it goes."

"And if she won't talk to me?"

"Well, you'd deserve that then, wouldn't you?" Flint shoots back, unwilling to give any quarter on this point even if he's been a bit of a softer touch than he could have been for the past few minutes. "Start with an apology and pray like hell that she forgives you. That's what I've got."

Flynn snorts. "Helpful."

"I'm not the one who broke it. I don't have to fix it."

"Captain Flint!" A familiar voice calls his name before Flynn can respond again and Flint turns to see Sam, Wyatt, and Rufus headed their way. 

"Bellamy," Flint greets with a nod. Sam's answering grin makes him tamp down on the memories of the last time he'd seen the man. 

(Pleasant memories—arguably far too pleasant for public company—and from the look in his eyes, Sam hasn't forgotten them either)

"I hear you need me to speak with Charles for you," Sam replies. 

_Right. Business._

"I do," Flint acknowledges. "Although it's possible things may be slightly more complicated than we originally thought."

"Aren't they always?"

"Miss Preston seems to believe we may all be in some danger. Assassination attempts on all the captains."

Flynn starts, surprise flashing across his face—obviously he hadn't let Lucy get that far before making whatever choices he'd apparently made. 

Wyatt also looks up startled. "Lucy's here? Where?"

"Upstairs with Mrs. Barlow," Flynn replies, decidedly avoiding the eyes of anyone who may be trying to catch his. 

"Why isn't she with the two of you?"

Silence. 

The three newest arrivals look between Flint and Flynn—Rufus appears exasperated, Wyatt as though he's going to be somewhat ill, and Sam...Sam's thoughtful. 

"Lover's quarrel?" He poses, raising a brow when Flynn crosses his arms, jaw clenching, and Wyatt chokes. "Well, if it's all the same, I'd like to meet this Miss Preston. Given the fact that a man I'd never met before just tried to kill me, I'd say she's on the right track."

Flint's stomach drops, his blood turning to ice. "What?"

"I'm fine," Sam assures firmly, though the look in his eyes is soft. "Hardly a scratch. Wyatt dispatched the villain before he could do any real damage."

Rufus mutters something too low for Flint to fully catch about saving horses and cowboys, but whatever it is makes Wyatt cough again and go red. 

"Well...good," Flint replies, his own throat feeling a little too thick for comfort. 

"The lady?" Sam inquires. Flint waves a hand in the direction of the staircase and when Sam starts up, the rest of them follow.

* * *

She hates him. She _hates_ him.

(She doesn’t. It’s almost worse that way. Hating him would be easier than...whatever this is)

Lucy presses her palms to her eyes, trying to prevent the burn of impending tears from seeing its result. She will not cry over Garcia Flynn. She won’t. 

(She feels wrung out and hollow, used and a little unclean, despite the fact that every so often she still feels the slightest frisson of pleasure when her walls clench around nothing, feeling the ghost of his fingers and wanting them back. She feels empty)

A knock comes at the door and Lucy drops her hands, her head snapping towards the sound.

“Garcia?” She knows it isn’t him even as the name leaves her lips, but she couldn’t help herself.

“It’s Miranda, dear.”

_Miranda…_

“Come in,” Lucy calls, slumping into the nearest chair. 

“What happened?” Miranda asks as soon as she’s shut the door behind her.

“I—” Her eyes burn again, this time a few tears managing to slip down her cheeks, and she swipes them away angrily. “I told him how I felt. Sort of. And I told him how I think he feels about me. And he—it didn’t go well, to say the least. I don’t know what I was expecting.”

Miranda’s lips press into a thin line as she tosses a glance back at the door. But whatever she may be thinking about Flynn, Lucy’s sure it has nothing on her own feelings.

(She could have been more tactful, but then again, there’s no reason to believe that would have gotten her a different reaction. More likely than not he just would have found a different way to throw it back in her face, an icy slap back to reality where he’s only reluctantly on her side, with very little to keep him there)

Abruptly, she’s angry. Not just angry—not ‘someone took the last of the coffee and didn’t refill the pot’ angry, not ‘some asshole driver cut me off’ angry, not even as angry as she’d been when he’d taken her to 1893 and almost gotten all of them killed. No, she’s white hot, spitting nails mad, because the thing is...he’d been lying. No matter what he said, she knows how he feels. She’s known at least since Lindbergh if not before. And she knows him well enough by now to know that he’s only ever that cruel when she’s gotten so close to the truth of something that he can’t bear anything other than pushing her away. She knows him.

And if he thinks she doesn’t, well, that’s bullshit.

“He’s such an asshole,” Lucy spits. “God, I don’t even know why I bother. I could do so much better than caring about a man who would—”

“Who would what?” Miranda prompts. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Lucy replies. “It doesn’t—you said last night you thought I was his person, the person for him to lean on, to be himself with. But what if I don’t want to be that? I can’t keep doing this. There has to be a better way to—to—” 

She clenches her hands in her skirt and glares down at the fabric. “ _Fuck_ him,” she says. “God, it would serve him right if I left him here. We don’t need him. We could make do with the three of us. I don’t—I don’t need him. And right now I don’t even want him. Which, I suppose, was exactly the point of his little display.”

If her voice is wavering by the end, if her cheeks are wet, Miranda doesn’t comment. 

“You don’t have to give anyone any part of yourself that you don’t want to give,” Miranda soothes. “If you don’t want to be for him what I am for James, well, we’re different people you and I. We don’t have to make the same choices.”

“I don’t know if I can forgive him,” Lucy admits. It’s harder than she’d like it to be.

“You don’t have to forgive him,” Miranda replies. “It’s your life.”

They don’t say anything else. There isn’t much else that needs to be said.


	5. v.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is at least a little in love with Sam Bellamy. The only person who seems unaware of this is Sam.

Sam takes the steps two at a time, not one to dawdle when there are introductions to be made. But although he’s the first to the door, Flint catches his arm just before he can open it. The look in the other man’s eyes is enough for Sam to let the others go past them.

“You’re bleeding,” Flint says quietly.

“It’s dry,” Sam replies. “And it was only a scrape.”

Flint doesn’t look convinced. In fact, he looks very much like he wants to touch and see for himself. Part of Sam wants to let him. The rest of him...well.

“You’re sure—”

“I’m fine, James,” Sam interrupts, his tone a little sharper than intended. He gentles it and repeats himself. “I’m fine.”

A beat passes and Flint’s eyes search his with a scrutiny that almost makes Sam want to pull away. 

_Don’t_ , he wants to say. _Don’t look at me like that. Don’t change the rules on me now._

(He knows what this is. They may be friends, but he has no illusions about anything else. He’s well aware of the tale of Thomas Hamilton—he knows that whatever comforts he may share with James and Miranda on select occasions aren’t meant to extend into the harsh light of day. It’s only that, well, his heart seems to have failed to get that message)

(He loves them—James Flint and Miranda Barlow—loves them the way he loves Maria Hallett, the way he’s come just short of loving a few scattered others throughout his life given how free he is with his affections. James and Miranda love...a memory. Which is fine, except for the fact that right now James is looking at him like that isn’t entirely the case, and Sam desperately needs him to not)

After what feels like an eternity, Flint swallows and drops his gaze. “I’m glad you’re in one piece,” he says. 

“I’m glad you are as well, my friend,” Sam replies before nodding towards the door. “Shall we?”

Flint nods and releases his arm. Sam tries not to think about how he can still feel the lingering heat from his palm.

Shaking off the tension that’s settled over him, Sam straightens up and sweeps through the door.

“Miranda!” He greets loudly, ignoring the other men in the room in favor of the two women by the desk. When he stops in front of them, he doesn’t hesitate to take Miranda’s hand and press his lips to the back of it. 

“Always a pleasure,” he adds.

“Samuel,” Miranda acknowledges, only the faintest twitch of her lips betraying the fact that she’s holding back a laugh. 

“Of course, you must introduce me to your companion as well,” he says, his attention turning to the woman he’s assuming is Wyatt’s friend.

“Lucy Preston,” the woman replies before Miranda can, extending her hand to him. Her eyes are red and the faintest hint of streaks on her cheeks make him think she’s been crying. It would certainly fit with the assumption he’d made downstairs about Mr. Flynn, but the sight sparks a flash of righteous anger.

“Sam Bellamy,” he says, bringing her hand to his lips as well before dropping his voice so only she and Miranda might hear. “I must say, a face as lovely as yours shouldn’t be marred by tears. I would see justice done against the one responsible if you’ll allow it.”

Lucy blinks in surprise and her eyes flick over his shoulder for the barest fraction of a second, which confirms his suspicions.   
It seems that Mr. Flynn requires a lesson in how to treat a lady. It’s a lesson that Sam is more than happy to provide.

“I...don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Lucy replies. “But I will keep that in mind.”

“Well, it’s a standing offer. So, if you change your mind…”

That gets a smile from her—it’s faint, but it’s there, and Sam takes it as a victory. 

“Your companions said you had some thoughts about these mischief-making rogues who’ve been wandering about?”

She does. Sam listens as she explains her theory—a rather sound on, in his opinion—but as he listens he’s almost more interested in watching Mr. Flynn. Away in the corner, he seems to be a word or two away from flinching at all times, guilt written heavily across his face. Whatever he did, he obviously has many regrets, which only makes Sam more inclined to find out what precisely that was. 

They decide to split up—Sam to go to speak with Vane as planned with at least one other partner, and the rest to look for the other agents. He takes the opportunity as it presents itself.

“I’d like to go with Mr. Flynn, if there are no objections,” he says. By the look on Flynn’s face, he has many objections, but he doesn’t voice them. Flint also looks as though he might argue, but it doesn’t make sense for the two of them to go together and leave the three newcomers to wander about alone.

(With the way Wyatt is glaring daggers at Flynn, leaving them alone together may not be for the best anyway)

Wyatt...he would be a possibility—he’s certainly a more than capable partner. But should anything go south with Vane, well, Sam’s not entirely comfortable with the thought of putting him in a more dangerous than necessary circumstance.

(He’ll make it up to him later)

He presses his lips to Miranda’s cheek before they leave and kisses Lucy’s hand again, watching Flynn carefully out of the corner of his eye when he lingers a bit longer than strictly proper.

“Do let me know if you wish to take me up on that offer,” Sam reminds her before flashing a quick grin. “Or if you have need of me in any...other capacity.”

(It’s half-joking, half-serious. He wasn’t exaggerating her loveliness, and from the looks he’d caught Wyatt throwing her way, he doubts the other man would require much convincing if she were to be interested. At any rate, there’s no harm in offering)

His gaze sweeps over her deliberately and she flushes. 

“Goodbye, Miss Preston. Miranda.”

Flynn follows him out the door.

* * *

Lucy stares as the door closes behind the men, feeling somewhat dazed. Her cheeks are still warm.

“So, that was—”

“Sam Bellamy, yes,” Miranda replies, a knowing smile on her lips. 

“He’s very—” Lucy searches for the right word. “—charming.”

Understatement, her mind whispers. If she’s honest, it was a little bit like how she imagines meeting a Disney prince would go. 

Had he really offered to defend her honor? Was that what he was saying there?

(She almost bursts out laughing from the sheer ridiculousness of it)

“He is at that,” Miranda acknowledges. “But you can be sure that you’re in no danger from him. Unless, of course, you wish to be.”

“I—” She has to tamp down on another threatening wave of hysterical giggles. “I think I probably shouldn’t get involved with a pirate captain, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

“It is likely the soundest choice,” Miranda agrees. “Although, for the purposes of having complete information, I will simply say that if you were seeking a new bedfellow, Sam is arguably the most pleasant you’ll find anywhere.”

It’s said with an air of casual lightness, and between that and her small smile, Lucy finds herself staring for a new reason as some pieces click into place.

“You and—?”

The look Miranda gives her says more than enough.

“As I said. The most pleasant you’ll find anywhere.”

(She doesn’t stop the laughter after that)


	6. vi.

Sam heads toward the beach to find Vane as soon as he and Flynn leave the tavern. The other man doesn’t speak, but Sam can feel his eyes on him intermittently.

"You know,” Sam says casually, keeping his eyes ahead. “As a general rule, I try not to flirt too seriously with women who are...attached. Tends to get messy and I have better things to do with my time than dealing with angry partners."

Flynn looks over and then away, his jaw clenching. "Is there a point to this?" 

"The point is that I'm curious how you would describe Miss Preston's current status," Sam replies.

“Why would I know anything about Lucy’s status, as you put it?”

Sam snorts and looks over, raising an eyebrow. “Cut the bullshit, Flynn. I saw how you were with James, with Wyatt. And I saw the look on your face when I was flirting with her. Besides which, she didn’t exactly have to name names for it to be pretty clear who made her cry.”

“I didn’t mean to make her cry,” Flynn says, his face twisting with guilt. 

“But whatever you did, you knew it could happen,” Sam fills in. “Which begs the question—what exactly _did_ you do?”

“I—” Flynn shakes his head and lets out a bitter laugh. “You know what, fuck you. This is none of your business.”

Sam stops in his tracks and narrows his eyes. 

Well, then. If that’s how it’s going to be…

“Considering the happiness and honor of a wonderful woman is at stake, I’ve decided to make it my business.”

“You know, I’ve read about you,” Flynn replies. “Black Sam Bellamy. Prince of Pirates. Such a goddamn gentleman, sailing in to the rescue like some white knight. I’m sure she’ll be very appreciative.”

Sam could almost laugh at that—the tone is insulting, but the words themselves, well, being called a gentleman isn’t exactly offensive—except for the second half.

“Be very careful, sir,” he says, his voice as cold as ice. “I may not know either of you well, but I’m not one to stand for such an insult to a lady—”

“That’s not—” Flynn’s own voice is sharp, but only until he cuts himself off. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he sighs. “I didn’t—you’re right, she’s a good woman. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

It’s not exactly an apology, but it at least sends Sam’s hand drifting away from his sword. 

“Wow,” he remarks as he starts walking again. “You’re a goddamn mess, aren’t you? I can see what she sees in you.”

“That was rude.”

“So are you, so I guess we’re even.”

Flynn’s quiet again, and then— “She doesn’t.”

“Doesn’t what?” Sam asks.

“See anything in me,” he replies. “Not anymore. I made sure of that.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Well, you’re a fucking idiot if you think it’s that easy to make someone stop caring about you. Especially when you obviously care about her.”

“I never said that I—”

_Really?_ Sam stares at Flynn, unsure whether he should punch the man out of his delusions or give him a hug, given that he so clearly needs one.

Flynn thankfully doesn’t continue that statement, although to Sam’s exasperation he follows it with something equally as foolish.

“She certainly didn’t seem terribly bothered by you flirting with her earlier.”

“And if Miss Preston desires, I’ll be more than happy to show her a good time,” Sam shoots back with a shrug and a smirk. There’s only so much quarter he’s willing to give Flynn after all. “For as long as she desires.”

Flynn’s jaw clenches again, but he doesn’t reply.

“But for the moment,” Sam continues, “I’m helping you. Or at least trying to.”

“I think I got enough advice from your friend Flint.”

James? Well, could be worse, but he’s not the first person Sam would go to for romantic advice. 

“James doesn’t anything about women,” he replies. “Mrs. Barlow, yes. Other women? Not particularly. Although, granted, he’s not unfamiliar with fixing mistakes.” 

He thinks he might catch Flynn’s lips twitching just a fraction. 

“It seemed like fairly solid advice to me,” he admits. “Apologize and pray like hell that she forgives me.”

_Oh, James_. 

It’s not the worst advice, but it could be better.

“If what you did was really that bad, just saying you’re sorry isn’t going to cut it,” Sam acknowledges. “You have to tell her how you feel, explain why you did what you did, explain what you’re so afraid of...and then you can apologize. Oh, and while it may not seem effective, actions can occasionally be much better than words alone. _Show_ her how much you love her. How sorry you are.”

“But, if I may say—” Sam’s voice hardens again and he claps Flynn on the shoulder. “—if she does forgive you? Don’t you dare fuck it up. Because Miss Preston seems like the kind of woman who could have the world at her feet if she wished. And if you aren’t prepared to at least give her your honesty, your heart...well...just don’t fuck it up.”

Flynn looks doubtful, as if there’s something unclear about that particular instruction, and Sam’s about to say something about how it really shouldn’t be that difficult...except just as he opens his mouth, they’re approached by four men.

“Captain Bellamy,” one of them says. “Captain Vane’s been looking for you.”

“Well, what a coincidence,” Sam replies. “My associate, Mr. Flynn and I were just on our way to see him.”

“About that,” says a second, drawing his sword. “We have instructions to only take you. Mr. Flynn has another appointment.”

“Is that so?” Flynn interjects, drawing another of those strange guns from beneath his jacket. Sam’s own hands inch toward his sword and one of his pistols. “And what appointment is that?”

“Rittenhouse sends their regards,” the fourth says. The next moment, a pistol shot rings out and Sam swears as he brings his sword up in time for it to clash against that of one of Vane’s crew members. His blood heats, the rush of the fight, the anger of the insult, driving him easily. With his free hand, he shoots blindly at the second man, the only indication that he hit his target a cry of pain. 

A few feet away, Flynn swears when a lucky slash catches his arm, but he dispatches his assailants with a few squeezes of the trigger before turning to Sam and the other men.

“Get down!” He shouts, and Sam ducks just as Flynn gets off another shot and the man Sam had been fighting falls, a neat hole in his forehead. 

Sam’s panting when he looks over at Flynn, the rushing in his ears dying down. His eyes fall to the other man’s gun.

“I really need to get one of those,” he comments.

Flynn flashes a sharp grin and re-holsters it. “Unfortunately for you, I’m pretty attached to mine.”

“Well, I am a pirate,” Sam points out. “Maybe I’ll just steal it later.”

“I’d love to see you try.”

His curiosity isn’t satisfied, but he lets it go for the moment—maybe he can ask to see Wyatt’s later.

“So,” Flynn asks, “Are we still going to see Vane?”

Sam sheathes his sword and looks around at the dropped bodies on the ground. He feels a vicious satisfaction at the sight, and only slight disappointment that he hadn’t managed to do as much as Flynn. He could do with running someone through with a sword right about now.

Are they still going to see Vane? After he sent four men to kill them? Or at least Flynn?

Given that he wants to give Vane a swift lesson in captaincy and how not to be a bloody coward—four men and he didn’t even come himself? Seriously?—well, he only has one answer.

“You bet your ass we are.”


	7. vii

“Anything?” Wyatt asks.

“Yes,” Rufus replies, which gives him hope for the few seconds before his friend continues with— “I’m pretty sure that woman over there just propositioned me. Aggressively. Jiya doesn’t need to know about that, does she? I mean, nothing happened, and it’s history, it’s not like I encouraged it—oh god I have to tell her, don’t I—”

Wyatt sighs and claps Rufus on the shoulder. “Buddy,” he interrupts. “Let’s think this through. Is there any way Jiya wouldn’t find the thought of you being propositioned in an early 18th century brothel anything but hilarious? Dude, she’s going to laugh for like an hour.”

“...yeah, you’re right,” Rufus agrees. “Although, I’m sure I could get her to laugh at you instead by spilling all the details about your dashing pirate captain.”

Wyatt rolls his eyes and ignores the way his face burns. “Sam is not my anything.”

“Is that your way of saying a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell?” Rufus teases. “Because you can’t lie to me, I saw the first one and I know there was a second after you ran off earlier.”

“I might be more inclined to tell you if you minded your own business.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

Wyatt laughs. “No, I wouldn’t.”

He glances around, unsure whether they should stay given how unsuccessful they’ve been. “Hey, where’s Flint?”

“Here,” the man himself says, and Wyatt swears internally as Rufus jumps. For his part, Flint simply raises an eyebrow at both of them, the judgment in his gaze clear.

“I didn’t find anything,” he says before either of them can ask. “It’s not as though I was given much of a description to go off of. But if any of the girls run into some strange newcomers, they’ll let me know.”

“And if they don’t?” 

“Then we’re not any worse off for asking, are we?” Flint turns on his heel after that and heads toward the door, leaving Wyatt with the distinct feeling he’s missed something.

“Someone’s touchy,” Rufus whispers.

Wyatt thinks about what Sam had said about Flint—business and pleasure—and swallows hard. If he’s somehow stumbled into an 18th century love triangle—or some other shape entirely—well, it’s not exactly his fault, is it?

“Yeah,” he agrees, shaking it off. “I suppose we should follow him anyway though.”

“I guess.”

* * *

Down by the docks, on the beach, Flynn looks at Sam with mild incredulity.

“This is Vane’s camp?” He asks.

“Indeed it is,” Sam replies, fixing a loosened buckle on one of his holsters. 

“And you want to just waltz right in and confront the man who just tried to have you killed.” 

(He’s hard pressed to say it’s the worst strategy in the world considering it’s one that he wouldn’t think too hard about employing himself in different circumstances, but his arm is crusted over with dried blood and the open gash tugs painfully whenever he moves too quickly, so he’s not exactly pleased with his companion’s choice)

“You’re welcome to stay here if you like,” Sam offers, but the challenge in his eyes says more than enough. And even if he weren’t one to back down from a challenge, Flynn thinks he wouldn’t have been able to stay behind anyway. Despite his best efforts he, surprisingly, actually likes the Prince of Pirates. Or at least, he would be somewhat disappointed if he died, which is close enough.

“If I get killed because of this—”

“I’ll be sure to take care of Miss Preston for you.” 

(Okay, maybe _disappointed_ is a stretch)

Before Flynn can say anything else though, Sam finishes hiding a knife up his sleeve and straightens up.

It’s as though a switch has been flipped. Where Sam before had been all warm grins and flirtatious smirks, or even the slightly toned down but still mostly jovial version of himself when he’d been giving Flynn advice, this Sam is hard stone, calculating and cold.

This is Black Sam. This is a pirate captain.

“Ready?” Sam asks, and his flash of teeth feels more dangerous than friendly.

(He’s been underestimating this man, Flynn realizes. And it’s a very good thing he’s on their side because otherwise that kind of miscalculation could have been fatal)

“Ready,” Flynn agrees, and Sam stalks off into the camp, his stride solid and true. There are whispers as the two of them pass, but Sam ignores them, keeping his eyes trained steadily ahead. The whispers grow louder as they approach a man with his back to them, with long hair and scattered braids. Over his shoulder, Flynn sees a woman with fiery red hair, several swords on her belt, and her eyes widen when she notices them approach.

“Vane!” Sam shouts, and the man turns toward them, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, only for them to widen as well when Sam grabs him by front of his shirt and slams him into a nearby wooden post. For an instant, it seems as though Vane might react, but the knife up Sam’s sleeve slides into his hand and proves a very effective disincentive once pressed firmly against his opponent’s gut.

The woman takes a step forward, but Sam interrupts her, though his eyes never leave Vane’s. “Stay right there, Bonny. This is between your captain and me.”

“The fuck is your problem, Bellamy?” Vane chokes out.

“My problem?” Sam repeats. “My problem is you, Charles. See, when I want a man dead, I do the deed myself. Much more efficient that way, much fewer pesky loose ends to tie up later.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Don’t. Lie to me.” 

Around them, Vane’s crew shifts uneasily, catching one another’s eyes, unsure of how to react to this spectacle. The red-haired woman—Anne Bonny—hasn’t taken her hand off one of her swords, but also hasn’t taken another step.

“You sent four of your men to kill me.” Sam’s voice is chilled rage and it echoes. The whispers get louder.

“I didn’t—” Vane cuts off with a grunt and makes a face when the knife presses in just enough to make him bleed. “They weren’t there for you. They were only meant to deal with your companion over there.”

“So it’s fine to attack a man under my protection then, is that it?”

“Come off it, Bellamy,” Vane scoffs. “You don’t even know him. He’s brand fucking new and has a price on his head that even you would have thought twice about with your high and mighty morality. No one would have missed him. Certainly not you.”

“That was a mistake,” Sam hisses. “Your first one. Your second one being that the men you sent also attacked me, which, as I think you should understand, I take just a little personally.”

“They shouldn’t have touched you.”

“Well then, we have a problem.” Vane winces again. “Because they did. Which means that either you’re lying to me or you don’t have control of your crew. And if they would be bold enough to try with me, what’s to stop them from trying with you?

Vane’s jaw ticks, but he stays silent.

“That’s what I thought,” Sam replies. “Get your fucking house in order, Charles. Before I do it for you.” 

With that, he steps back and lets Vane stagger to keep his balance, ignoring the way he coughs to catch his breath again.

“It won’t happen again,” Vane allows.

“It better fucking not.”

“Who told you there was a price on my head?” Flynn asks, almost regretting it when every eye swings to him.

Vane shrugs. “Some woman. Tall, thin. Red hair. Had a real smart-looking pistol that I would love to get my hands on.”

Emma. Of course.

“Any idea where we could find her?” Sam asks.

“Right here.”

Flynn turns and something hits him over the head. Through his dizziness, he’s vaguely aware of shouting, of an explosion.

He can’t keep his balance—he falls to his knees.

And then the world goes black.


	8. viii

“Something’s wrong,” Lucy says, looking towards the door. “They should be back by now.”

It’s been hours since Sam and Flynn set off to find Charles Vane. Flint, Wyatt, and Rufus returned nearly an hour ago themselves, having had no luck finding the hidden Rittenhouse agents. It’s possible that the other two men are fine, are just caught up in pirate politics or took a wrong turn somewhere. And yet…

(And yet, Lucy can’t shake the feeling, the cold knot in her stomach, that this isn’t normal. That something is very, very wrong)

Flint lifts his head from where he’s been sitting in the corner speaking quietly with Miranda. 

“Sam can handle himself,” he replies, although he follows her gaze to the door. “And Vane can be prickly at the best of times. He probably just got caught up arguing with the man.”

“And you know how fast Flynn is with a gun,” Wyatt adds. “Between the two of them it would probably take a small army to take them down.”

Or a well placed trap, Lucy thinks, wrenching her eyes away from the door—watched pots and all that—and turning her mug in her hands before setting it down on the table with a quiet thud. 

“I need some air,” she announces, pushing back her chair. Wyatt gets up to follow her, but she stops him with a pointed glance.

“Lucy—”

“I’ll be right outside. I’ll stay close, I promise, I just—”

It’s been a hell of a day and it’s not even over yet. After Flynn...well, that had been an emotional roller coaster in itself, and adding Sam and all of her chats with Miranda into it as well, it’s no wonder she feels like she’ll crawl out of her skin if she can’t get two minutes of peace alone. 

“If anything happens—”

“I’ll scream,” Lucy assures him., Wyatt doesn’t look convinced, but when Rufus settles a hand on his arm, he sighs and sits back down.  
Lucy steps out into the warm evening air, the scent of the sea filling her lungs as the sun sinks over the harbor, the dying rays turning the sky purple and red and gold. 

_Red sky at night, sailor's delight_ , echoes in her head. 

She sighs and leans heavily against a post off to the side from the door, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths to ward off the chill of uneasiness that she can't quite shake. 

She's still angry with Flynn. So angry. And yes, maybe she wouldn't be too upset if he happened to get a few bruises from the flat edge of a stray sword. But Rittenhouse...she's sure they would do nothing good if they got their hands on him. 

(As pissed as she is, as hurt, she will always hate Rittenhouse far more than she could hate Flynn. She will always care about Flynn far more than she could ever care about Rittenhouse. If only because it's the last thing they would want her to do)

They need to talk. Or rather, she needs to talk because nothing good ever comes from Flynn opening his mouth. And while it's not going to be easy to make him listen to what she has to say, he's at least not going to be able to distract her the way he had earlier again. 

Lucy blows out a breath and pushes her hair out of her eyes. 

He's fine, she tells herself. He'll come back. And then we'll talk. 

"Are you Miss Preston?" 

Lucy turns at the question and comes face to face with one of the women she'd seen outside the brothel earlier in the day. 

"Do I know you?" She asks. 

The woman bites her lip, her eyes darting around the area. "No, miss," she replies. "But I work next door and a man came in a bit ago. He gave me this for you."

It's a letter, thick paper folded over and sealed. 

A chill goes down her spine. 

"This man—did you get his name?" Lucy asks. When the woman stays silent, she sighs. 

"Did he threaten you?"

"Yes, miss."

Without wasting any more time, Lucy takes the letter, nearly tearing it in her haste to break the seal. She goes pale as she reads it and opens her mouth to say something to the woman—but when she looks up, she’s gone. 

Lucy looks back down at the letter— _Flynn, the fort, two hours, come alone_ —swallows hard, and then tucks it down the front of her corset before leaning back against the post again.

Wyatt would never let her go alone to face Rittenhouse, let alone to trade herself to Rittenhouse for Flynn. 

But—a crash comes from inside, the sound of the back door opening forcefully, and then a familiar voice—he may be a little distracted.

* * *

Stumbling back from the beach, eyes sore from flash bombs, while half carrying a man like Charles Vane is not how Sam expected this day to end. And yet, after the first explosion—and beyond that, after getting caught in a fight with several members of Vane’s crew who seemed to have mutiny in their blood—he’d been slashed across the back of his shoulder while Vane had barely been standing after taking a knife to the side and several fists to the face.

Sam had seen an unconscious Flynn get dragged off and swore heavily, but there was no way he’d been going to catch up in his state. So instead, he’d turned to Charles.

Not...that he’s entirely convinced he shouldn’t have just left him there. 

Vane hisses in pain when Sam shifts his weight to kick the back tavern door open, accidentally brushing against the other man’s stab wound. “Watch it, Bellamy.”

“Fuck you, Charles. I just saved your life,” Sam replies, gritting his teeth when the force of hitting the door pulls at his wound. Blessedly, the door opens with a crash. 

“A little help here?” He calls, staggering under the weight of Vane against his uninjured side. 

“Oh shit,” Rufus says before he and Wyatt rush to relieve Sam of the burden of the other man. 

For his part, Sam reaches out to steady himself against the wall as his vision swims. He opens his eyes at a familiar touch to his cheek—when had he closed them?—and blinks through the dizziness at Miranda.

“Mrs. Barlow,” he murmurs. “I’d kiss your hand again, but I’m not sure I should be bending at the moment.”

She ignores him, instead smoothing his hair back off his forehead. “Where are you hurt, Samuel?” 

He rolls his shoulder and grunts in pain, turning only just enough to let her take a look. “Not the prettiest sight in the world, I’m afraid,” he says, biting off a quiet cry when she gently pulls back the tattered bits of his shirt that were caught in the wound. 

“I’ve seen worse,” Miranda replies. After another moment, she steps away. “I’ll get some rum and a needle and thread and see what I can do for that.”

“Miranda—” For the life of him, he doesn’t know what possesses him to say her name, especially not like that. Half a whisper, half a prayer, and words fail him entirely once she looks back at him. But whatever it is, she seems to understand, her eyes going from confusion to softness before she steps into him just enough to lean up and brush her lips over his cheek.

“I’ll be back,” she promises. 

He watches her go, and then—”Sam!” 

_Wyatt._

Sam manages a weary smile as he turns to face the other man. Wyatt’s hands hover in the air for a moment, as if he’s not sure whether he can (or should) touch, but as Sam watches, a resolve settles in his gaze and he cups his cheek, leans in, and kisses him.

Unlike their other two kisses, this one barely counts as a kiss—featherlight pressure, only the barest brush of contact—but Sam sighs anyway.

“I’m really glad you made it back,” Wyatt says.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees a shadow move. When he turns his head to look fully, Flint is gone.

* * *

Flint stalks off into the night, trying to banish the vision of Sam and Wyatt from his mind. He has no right to jealousy, not when he has Miranda and Sam has no one but whatever passing partners he may be inclined to take, but it burns in him anyway.

Wyatt Fucking Logan. He doesn’t strike Flint as a pirate, no. No, he strikes Flint as a soldier. And that makes him suspicious, no matter what other company he may keep.

But that company...who are these people anyway? Who are they really?

Just as the thought comes to him, a swish of skirts catches his eye—Miss Preston slipping away down the street. 

Well. Speaking of suspicion…

Flint follows her. At a brief distance, of course, at least until they’re within sight of the fort. But then, he takes a shortcut, hides himself and grabs her when she passes.

“Don’t scream,” he says as he claps a hand over her mouth during her initial struggle. “It’s me.”

He lowers his hand and Lucy shoves at his chest. “You followed me?” She hisses.

“It wasn’t exactly difficult,” Flint replies. “You want to tell me what you’re doing here?”

Lucy bites her lip, her gaze dropping to the ground. Just as Flint is about to repeat the question, she breaks the silence.

“Rittenhouse has Flynn,” she explains, jerking her head toward the fort. “In there. They told me to come alone or they would kill him.”

Flint stares at her, then rolls his eyes. “And so you just went? Well done, Miss Preston. I should congratulate you on such a truly brilliant work of the imagination.”

“Oh, and I suppose you would do better?” She shoots back.

Flint looks at the fort, then back at her, considering the options for a moment.

“Actually...yes. I would,” he replies. “Now, come with me.”

* * *

Flint leads them to a hidden entrance, a set of tunnels that are creepy and dark, but nothing Lucy will really mind much if it means getting Flynn out safely. When they reach what appear to be a set of cells, Flint comes to a halt at the sound of voices.

“He’s not going to tell us anything. This is pointless,” comes a man’s voice. 

Lucy peers around the corner and winces at the sight of Flynn tied to a chair. His sleeve is bloody and there’s a gash over one of his eyes that looks as though it may need stitches whenever they get home. Completing the picture is Emma Whitmore, standing in front of him, a man at her side with his gun trained on Flynn.

“Well?” Flint says quietly.

“We can’t just barge in. They’ll kill him,” Lucy replies. “But maybe if we can distract—”

“We can bring them back, you know,” Emma says, her voice echoing through the chamber. Lucy freezes. “Lorena. And what was your daughter’s name? Iris? Really lovely choice.”

Lucy can’t see Flynn’s face, but her heart twists anyway. How dare they just—

“Give us Lucy Preston. And we’ll bring them both back,” she promises. “It’s that easy.”

Lucy can’t breathe. She’s vaguely aware of Flint hissing her name, but her ears are trained on the conversation around the corner.

Silence. That’s all there is. And then—

“Go fuck yourself, Emma.” Flynn’s voice is rough, wrecked, as raw as if each word had been glass, cutting his throat on the way out.

For her part, Emma seems almost as stricken dumb as Lucy.

“Wow,” she says finally. “I never thought I’d see the day. Garcia Flynn, giving up the chance to fix it all...over a woman. Whatever would Lorena say?”

“Lorena wouldn’t say anything. Because she’s dead,” Flynn snarls. “Because Rittenhouse killed her.”

“You know, loving Lucy isn’t going to do either of you any good,” Emma replies. “Rittenhouse is in her blood. Whether you help us or not, she’ll join us eventually. It’s just a matter of time.”

“You’re wrong,” Flynn says. “She’s stronger than all of you. She’s better. You won’t win this.”

“Well, in that case there’s no need to keep you around, is there?” Emma turns to the man at her side. “Kill him.”

“Wait!” Lucy runs out from behind the wall. “Don’t shoot.”

Emma whips an arm out to stop the man from firing, her lips curving into an amused, satisfied smile. 

“Well, well, well. You showed after all,” she says. “I have to admit, I wasn’t entirely convinced you would trade yourself for him like this. How...romantic of you.”

“The note said you would let Flynn go if I came,” Lucy reminds her, ignoring that last comment. “Well, I’m here. Now let him go.”

Flynn looks pained.

“You know, between us women, he’s really not worth it,” Emma replies.

“I don’t care.”

Emma shrugs. “I suppose a deal is a deal,” she agrees, nodding to her goon. “Untie him.”

For a moment, it looks as though Flynn is planning to take the man out the second he gets the opportunity, but Lucy catches his eyes and shakes her head minutely as the man kneels behind the chair and sets to work untying the ropes. 

_Trust me. Please._

As if by some miracle, Flynn actually does relax. And then, as soon as he’s untied, Lucy nods.

 _Now._

She throws herself at Emma, shoving the woman’s gun aside so the shot she fires goes wide. The snick of a blade tells her Flint has entered the room, and between him and Flynn the Rittenhouse man is quickly dispatched.

When Emma forces her way past Lucy, heading for the door, Flint runs after her. Flynn starts that way as well, but almost stumbles, having to stop and steady himself in the doorway.

 _Probably the head injury_ , Lucy thinks. 

Before she can say anything though, Flint returns, his face grim.

“I lost her,” he says. “But we should go. Get out of here before they start sending guards to check out the ruckus.”

There’s something that strikes her as not quite right, something too smooth in Flint’s face as he says it, but they’ve done what they came to do. They have Flynn back.

So, Lucy drops it for the moment. She just hopes she won’t regret it later.


	9. ix.

_"Stop!" Flint aims his pistol just off to the side of the woman's back, close enough to make her jump when it fires but not so close as to do any real damage._

_Emma whirls around to face him, putting her hands up, although he doesn't miss the way one of them inches slowly down to the sheath at her side._

_"Are you going to kill me, Captain Flint?" She asks._

_The thing is, he doesn't know Lucy or Flynn or Wyatt or Rufus. Not really. He doesn't know them, doesn't particularly trust them, and while he could kill this woman, he'd much rather find out what she knows first._

_"You said something back there about bringing people back from the dead," he says instead of answering._

_Emma's eyes widen a fraction and then clear as though a veil has dropped between them. But she doesn't try to hide the faint smile flickering at the edges of her lips._

_"If you're asking if we can bring back Thomas Hamilton, the answer is yes," she replies, and his torn and battered heart stops for a moment._

_"What would you want?"_

_"To start, let me go. After that we'll be in touch."_

_He lowers the gun._

* * *

The benefit of having access to the office of the most powerful woman on Nassau is that there are any number of useful things stashed away, Miranda thinks as she pulls open a drawer to find a stack of clean handkerchiefs and linen strips. Another reveals a nearly full bottle of rum—the good kind, as opposed to the watered-down swill that gets served downstairs. 

She takes both, as well as the needle and thread she’d come for, utterly unconcerned with whether the supplies will be missed.

(Miranda has no love for Eleanor Guthrie. In her opinion, for all that Eleanor fancies herself a pirate queen, there’s little difference between her and some of the women Miranda had known back in England. Well...there’s one difference. Those women had played the game a thousand times better)

After reaching the bottom of the staircase and starting back towards Sam and the others, she stops in an archway and leans against the wall, just watching.

Across the way, Sam is sitting on a bench next to Wyatt, the two men so close that their relationship is obvious to anyone who should care to speculate. As she watches, Wyatt puts a hand to Sam’s cheek only for Sam to tip into the touch the way a cat might—slightly wary perhaps, but touch-starved and desirous enough for intimacy that it seeks it out anyway. 

James isn’t anywhere to be found, Miranda notices. Although that’s possibly for the best considering that even she feels a pang observing the two men. 

(It should be her touching him that way, inspiring that reaction. It should be them—her and James together. It should be, it could be, but it isn’t. And it isn’t that she doesn’t understand why—Captain James Flint is far less free with his affections than James McGraw had been, and arguably for good reason. But at times like this, she wishes he could be at least a little more so)

A flicker of movement pulls her gaze to an exasperated-looking Rufus dashing over to the pair. He says a few words to Wyatt, too low for her to make out at this distance, but whatever he says causes Wyatt to make a face and glance regretfully at Sam.

Miranda takes that as her cue.

“If you gentlemen need to attend to Captain Vane, I can manage this one,” she says as she approaches. Wyatt’s hand slips from Sam’s cheek, but even then he doesn’t immediately step away.

“I’ll be back,” Wyatt promises.

“I know,” Sam replies with a small smile. “After all, I’ve been told I’m rather irresistible. How could you stay away?”

“You’re a terrible flirt.”

“Well that’s just a blatant lie; I’m an excellent flirt.”

“Wyatt,” Rufus interrupts, giving his friend a pointed look. 

Wyatt sighs and nods before turning and following Rufus back to Vane as Miranda takes a chair from an adjacent table and settles it behind Sam.

"He's very pretty," she murmurs, noting the way Wyatt looks back at Sam over his shoulder before returning her attention to the gash on his shoulder. 

Sam lets out a small, tired laugh, his mouth turning up in a wry smile. 

"James doesn't like him."

"James doesn't like anyone. I wouldn't take it personally." 

"Doesn't like anyone I kiss, you mean."

Miranda uncaps the bottle she pilfered from Eleanor's office and pours some directly over the wound, wincing in sympathy when Sam swears. 

"That is a conversation for the two of you to have yourselves," she replies. "I'm not getting in the middle."

"And here I thought you liked being in the middle."

She rolls her eyes and swiftly threads the needle. "This isn't particularly sharp, you know. And you'll need quite a lot of stitches," she says. "If I were you, I'd consider refraining from saying anything that might make me inclined to be less than efficient."

Sam chuckles quietly and his head lolls back on his uninjured shoulder so he can look at her. His eyes are heavy-lidded and clouded with exhaustion and pain, but there’s a softness to them as well, the same softness from before when he’d said her name. She can’t stop herself from reaching up to card her fingers through his loosened hair. 

He hums as his eyes flutter closed. “Keep doing that and I doubt I’ll be able to say anything at all,” he murmurs.

“Sadly, I need both hands for this job,” Miranda replies, feeling an entirely honest pang of regret at that fact. 

“If only there were two of you,” Sam says, and she thinks both of them are caught off-guard by the bitterness in his voice.

“Sorry,” he sighs before she can say anything. “Not putting you in the middle, I just—Christ, I don’t understand that man sometimes.”

Miranda makes one final pass through his hair before sitting back and turning to his shoulder, considering. For a moment, there’s only silence but for Sam’s sharp inhale when the needle pierces his skin, but as she works the words come easier.

“I’ll be the first to admit that James is not the easiest man to love,” she acknowledges as she slowly and methodically continues her stitching, pretending, as has become more commonplace than she’d like, that the mangled edges of skin she’s working with are just another kind of fabric. 

“How do you do it?” The words are muffled when Sam drops his head forward again, but she catches them anyway.

“Practice. A lot of practice. And a lot of patience.”

“Some people would call you a saint,” he teases.

“Some people would be wrong,” Miranda replies, somewhat chillier than she otherwise might be with him, but that had hit a nerve.

(She’s no saint—not even close. Not when she had helped James track down Alfred Hamilton and had practically begged him to drive a blade through his heart. Not when she had stayed up the night he’d returned, running her fingers over the bloodstained sword and wondering what it had felt like to kill her husband’s father. Not when even then she regretted not being able to do it herself. 

She knows what people say about her, at least those who know about her connection to James. They say she’s his leash and marvel at her sway. But that’s not entirely true. They don’t realize that she has the same darkness in her that he does. They don’t realize that the only reason she doesn’t encourage him to burn the world to the ground and all their enemies with it is that she’s more afraid of losing him to that darkness than anything else. So instead she sits in a cottage and gives him a safe haven. And waits. Always waits and always wonders if each time he leaves will be the last)

She doesn’t realize that she’s stopped stitching until Sam shifts on the bench, a finger under her chin lifting her eyes to his. 

“I know,” he says simply. 

The thing is, Miranda believes him.

“James isn’t easy to love,” she repeats, her heart skipping at the softness, the love in his gaze. “Neither am I.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Sam replies, and she has to close her eyes so that she can remember how to breathe. 

(Sam reminds James of Thomas, she knows. But her...he reminds her of James. James as he was before, James McGraw with his hidden tragedy and quick temper and fierce desire for justice. The first time they’d been together, the three of them, she’d almost laughed at the way he’d looked at her, with the same shock and near-reverence that James had the first time she’d kissed him. Sam’s as easy with his affections as James had been too...although no, that’s not quite accurate. Sam’s even easier with his—he makes no secret of his preferences the way so many do, instead living openly and loving freely and anyone who would dare to say anything about it...well, no one does.

When it comes down to it, neither comparison is quite exact. When it comes down to it, Sam Bellamy isn’t Thomas, isn’t James McGraw. He’s Sam. Her Samuel. Their Samuel)

Miranda wets her lips as she draws in a shaky breath.

“Sam…”

Her eyes flutter open when his thumb passes over her lower lip and she gives their surroundings a cursory glance before dropping her gaze to his mouth.

_Fuck it._

He meets her halfway when she leans in, his hand curving around the side of her neck to keep her from pulling away too quickly. She keeps the kiss gentle, using it to say everything she hasn’t been able to with words, and the response she gets makes his own feelings more than clear in return.

“Miranda, I—” 

She quiets him with a finger to his lips, then replaces it with her mouth for a brief, final moment.

“I know,” she replies.

Miranda sits back and clears her throat, dropping her eyes to search for the abandoned needle.

“Turn around. I still need to finish this,” she instructs. “And then you need to rest.”

“With you?” 

_Incorrigible._

“Not with me,” she say, although there’s a smile playing around her lips. “I’m sure your new friend over there will be happy to oblige though.”

“It was worth a shot.”

_James isn’t easy to love_ , Miranda thinks, unable to banish her smile even as she continues the unpleasant task of stitching Sam back together. _But, he’s easier to love with two people than just one._

And Sam, well. Sam is _very_ easy to love.


	10. x.

The walk back from the fort is...quiet, to say the least. For all that Lucy had been completely sure what she wanted to say to Flynn earlier, now she’s at a loss. Every time she opens her mouth, his conversation with Emma rears up again. And how is she supposed to respond to the fact that he refused an offer that would have given him his life back...for her?

(Not that she would want to have that conversation in front of Flint anyway—Flint who is equally quiet at Flynn’s side, his eyes flicking between the two of them as though he can’t quite understand something. Lucy can only imagine what he must be thinking given what he’d overheard)

The thing is, that conversation doesn’t make up for Flynn’s actions earlier. He’d cut her deeply with those and it’ll take a good long while for her to completely forgive him if she does at all. And yet…

_“Go fuck yourself, Emma.”_

_“She’s stronger than all of you. She’s better.”_

Lucy cuts her eyes to Flynn. He’s not looking at her. He hasn’t since they left the tunnels.

Looking at him like this though...he sags under the weight of some unseen anchor, collapses in on himself as if whatever strings had been keeping him upright have suddenly snapped.

(She has so many questions, so many, but there’s no good way to ask and the answers she would get, well, the likelihood that they would fix things instead of creating more tangles in this strange web between them is slim)

Flint doesn't take them back to the tavern. Instead he stops in at the brothel and has a few quiet words with a dark-eyed woman Lucy vaguely recalls hearing referred to as Max. Whatever he says causes her to glance over at Lucy and Flynn before looking back at Flint and nodding. He doesn't say anything else before turning and slipping past them out the door. 

Max stops them before they can follow. 

"The two of you look dead on your feet," she remarks. "Come with me. I have an empty bed and you seem sorely in need of one."

Lucy looks over at Flynn, curious to see his reaction to the implication that the two of them should share a bed, tired enough herself that she can't say she's entirely opposed to the thought. Whatever she might have expected to see though, Flynn just looks exactly as Max had described—half-dead, exhausted, broken down...a flicker of resignation passes over his face, but that's the extent of his reaction. 

"Thank you," Lucy replies. "That's very kind of you."

Max shrugs and steps lightly over to the stairs, snagging a half-empty bottle of something off a table in front of a snoring man and passing it to Lucy once they reach the top landing. 

"For his arm," she acknowledges, nodding at Flynn's torn and stained sleeve. They walk a few steps further before she pushes open one of the bedroom doors. It may be a brothel, but at least it's mostly clean, Lucy thinks as she glances surreptitiously around the room. 

"If anyone comes asking for me, just tell them I'm not in," Max says. "No one should bother you.”

For a moment, a bubble of nerves rises up in Lucy’s chest and it’s on the tip of her tongue to ask the other woman to stay, no matter how strangely that might come across. But the words don’t come and when the door closes behind her, the air grows thick and heavy with awkwardness.

Flynn still won’t look at her. 

“That cut doesn’t look good,” Lucy says finally. “I could help you clean it if—if you’d like.”

Her voice sounds weak to her own ears—she’s tired, both physically and emotionally, and the energy it would take to argue with him, at least about this, is not something she can muster right now. Thankfully, despite the conflicted shadow that passes over his face, Flynn doesn’t seem to have the energy to argue with her either. Instead, he nods once and stiffly strips off his shirt before moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

Lucy swallows hard—her limbs are leaden, but she manages to force her feet to move until she can settle next to him, mechanically soaking her handkerchief in the alcohol and gently pressing it to the cut. Flynn doesn’t even flinch. 

(It looked worse before it was clean than it actually is—it’s shallower than she expected at any rate)

The silence is oppressive. With all the thoughts swirling around in her head, it almost takes more energy not to say them. 

(Should she? On one hand, it might make things worse. On the other hand, if she puts it off, she might not get another chance to be alone with him like this)

_Decisions, decisions..._

Lucy bites her lip and focuses on cleaning his arm so she doesn’t have to look at his face.

“Garcia—”

“Don’t,” he says before she can actually get another word out. “Please don’t ask me.”

“We have to talk about this,” she replies, her voice far steadier than she feels. “About what you said to Emma. And about...this morning.”

Flynn rubs at his eyes with his free hand for a moment and finally, finally glances over at her. The anguish in his gaze is staggering.

“You know, taking her deal never even occurred to me,” he admits. “I’ve been...turning it over in my head. And I could say that I thought she was lying, that she never would have followed through, and that’s why I didn’t take it. But in that moment, I wasn’t thinking about any of those things.”

Whatever Lucy may have been expecting him to say, if anything at all, it certainly wasn’t that. Her mouth goes dry, her pulse picks up. She can barely breathe.

“What were you thinking?”

(The thing is, if it had been the other way around, if Emma had been offering her Amy in exchange for Flynn...as ashamed as she is to admit it, even only to herself, Lucy can’t say she wouldn’t have at least considered it. So to hear that from Flynn…)

He closes his eyes.

“I was thinking that they’d already taken everything else from me,” he replies, the words so quiet that she has to strain to hear them. “I was thinking that I couldn’t bear for them to take you too.” 

The cacophony of questions and stray thoughts in her mind goes abruptly silent. She’s lost, adrift in a sea of emotion—confusion, anger, empathy, compassion—too many feelings to count. For the moment, she sets aside the morning—not forgiving, not forgetting, but triaging—and brings a hand to his cheek.

“Garcia...look at me?”

He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t react at all, and the utter stillness of him, this broken-down numbness, is more concerning than any other state she’s seen him in, and she’s not sure how to snap him out of it.

“Garcia…”

And then, before she can talk herself out of it, Lucy kisses him.

Flynn inhales sharply, startled, unsure, but she shifts forward on the bed and curves her hand around the back of his neck. And then, as if a switch has been flipped, his hands fall to her hips and he returns the kiss. 

He kisses her like a drowning man desperate for air, grips her hips as if she's a life raft, the only thing keeping him above water, or from flying apart at the seams. Part of her—most of her—wants to give him this. Wants to let him press her into the mattress and bury himself in her. Wants to give him whatever solace she can no matter how fleeting. 

The sensible part of her, somehow still capable of rational thought after such a complete shitshow of a day, recognizes that sex isn't going to fix anything between them at the moment. That sex is, in fact, what caused at least some of their problems in the first place.

(Well, arguably less the sex than his actions afterwards, but the point still holds)

"Garcia—"

A faint tremor runs through him when she sets her hands to his chest, but he doesn't pull away, dragging his mouth down her jaw, her neck. 

"Garcia, wait," she breathes, pushing lightly. "Stop."

“Please,” he murmurs brokenly against her neck. Something damp hits her skin and her chest twists.

“We can’t just—there are too many things we need to talk about. This morning was—”

“I’m sorry,” Flynn says. “About this morning, I—I can fix it."

"Not right now you can't," Lucy replies, although she also doesn't pull away. "And not like this."

She appreciates the sentiment and the apology, but they haven’t even scratched the surface.

“I can explain. The journal—Lorena—”

Lucy tips his chin up and kisses him quiet. “Tomorrow,” she says. “You can explain tomorrow.”

She slides up the bed then, pulling him with her, and lets him wrap his arms around her. They don’t speak again. Slowly, gently, she cards her fingers through his hair until his breathing evens out.

She doesn’t sleep.

* * *

Miranda stays for much longer than Sam expects after she finishes stitching up his shoulder. By the time Wyatt returns and she disappears up the stairs into the relative privacy of Eleanor's office, his voice is rough from overuse. 

That woman...Christ, he loves that woman. 

"You should sleep," Wyatt suggests as the night drags on and the noise of the tavern gradually dulls. 

"I'd go back to my ship, but then I'd be deprived of the pleasure of your company," Sam replies easily, hooking his fingers into the collar of Wyatt's shirt and stealing a kiss. He's half-drunk off of exhaustion and a few large swallows of whatever Miranda had used on him, but he's still in control of his faculties. Even if he weren't, his craving for company, for connection, for touch, hasn't diminished at all since she left, and well, she had encouraged this after all. 

Wyatt's tongue passes over his lower lip when Sam pulls back as if he's chasing the taste of the other man's lips. His eyes flick to the corner where Rufus is stretched out on a bench snoring lightly. 

"What if...I were to go with you?" He says slowly. 

Sam considers the image of Wyatt stretched out on his bed, flushed and wrecked and wanting, and nearly shivers. His free hand slips under the hem of his shirt, his thumb pressing into the hollow of Wyatt's hip. 

"Just to sleep?" He asks. His eyes track the way Wyatt's throat moves as he swallows—he wants to set his teeth to it. 

"Well...we can sleep eventually."

Sam grins. "Well then. What are we waiting for?" 

He takes Wyatt's hand and heads towards the door, stopping only when he almost runs into a newly returned Flint. 

"James."

Flint's eyes drop to their clasped hands and his jaw ticks. Sam nearly rolls his eyes. 

"You seem to be feeling better," he says. 

"No thanks to you," Sam replies. 

"If you must know, I went with Miss Preston to rescue Mr. Flynn. They're fine, if you were wondering."

The tone needles at him. It would be one thing if Flint had left to do just that—go rescue Flynn. But Sam and Flint both know why he really left. 

Wyatt's hand slips from his. "Uh, do you two need to talk?"

"No," Sam assures. 

"Yes," Flint insists. 

Sam closes his eyes and takes a slow breath. When he opens them again, he notices one of his crew looking over at them curiously. 

"Fine," he snaps before calling, "Julian!"

The man downs the rest of his drink and gets up, easily maneuvering his way through the tables toward them. 

"Yes, Captain?"

"Wyatt, this is John Julian, the Whydah's pilot," he introduces. "Julian, this is Wyatt. Can you take him to the ship? I'll be along shortly."

"Of course, Captain."

Flint makes a face and for good measure, Sam tugs Wyatt in for one last kiss before releasing him. 

"I won't be long.”

“Was that necessary?” Flint asks as soon as Wyatt and Julian are out of earshot. 

Sam crosses his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow. If he’d been pleasantly warm and buzzed before, he’s all too sober now.

“Yes, I think it rather was,” he replies frostily. “Now was there something you wanted to say to me, or was it just that you needed more time to act like a jealous prick?”

“I’m not—”

“You walked out because I kissed him earlier,” Sam interrupts. “Don’t deny it, James.”

Flint has the decency to at least look somewhat chagrined. He takes a step closer and reaches out, only to drop his hand before it can make contact with Sam.

“I don’t like seeing you kiss other people,” he acknowledges, dropping his voice.

“You love seeing me kiss Miranda,” Sam shoots back. He’s not unaware of the ways in which that particular relationship is different, but he’s not going to deny himself the opportunity of expressing that Flint’s being at least a little hypocritical.

“That’s not the same.”

“Miranda doesn’t think so. As a matter of fact, she was encouraging me to spend more time with Wyatt.”

“Yes, well, Miranda’s used to—” Flint cuts himself off abruptly and Sam bites the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting.

“Sharing?” He fills in the blank, shaking his head. “First her husband, now me, is that it?”

“Don’t. Don’t bring him into this.” Flint’s voice is sharp as a blade, a clear warning that if Sam steps closer he may just wind up bloody. But the thing is, Sam’s more than a little tired of avoiding this subject.

“He’s already here,” Sam snaps. “The bloody ghost in the room at all times. If you don’t want to move on, James, that’s fine, but make up your mind about what we’re doing here. And until you do, you don’t get to have an opinion on who I do or don’t make time with. Because I’m not yours!”

“Aren’t you?”

The words are quiet enough that they could be a silken caress, but Sam recoils as if they’re a slap.

_I am not a possession to be owned._

“Fuck you,” he snarls. At his side, his hand clenches into a fist, but whatever satisfaction he might get from knocking Flint to the ground wouldn’t be worth tearing Miranda’s careful stitches. Flint reaches out, remorse in his eyes, but Sam steps back out of the way before shouldering past him to the door.

* * *

Lucy doesn’t last more than maybe half an hour after Flynn falls asleep before the stifling atmosphere becomes unbearable enough that she has to leave. She slips out of bed carefully, ignoring the easy way Lorena’s name falls from Flynn’s lips as he stirs for the faintest moment before settling again. 

Her eyes start blurring over almost as soon as she steps out the door, and she takes a moment in the hall to let the tears fall, swiping at her eyes hastily when a couple stumbles up the stairs. She brushes past them without a second glance, ignoring the late-night crowd on the first floor, and finds her way out the back door into a side street.

Once the door closes behind her, she leans heavily against the wall and puts her head in her hands.

“For someone so beautiful it seems rather a shame that we only ever run into one another when you’ve been crying.”

Lucy jumps and wipes any lingering tears away before turning toward the voice.

Sam.

The captain’s face is half in shadow from where he stands leaning against the side of the building and there’s something vulnerable about his posture that goes beyond the way he’s favoring his left shoulder. For a moment she’s struck by how young he looks, and yet there’s something tired there are well, something old beyond his years.

_In eight months, you’ll be dead_ , she thinks. It hurts. 

“Sam,” she greets. “I was just…”

“Hiding?” He fills in, offering her a tired smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell on you if you won’t tell on me.” 

“Who are you hiding from?” She asks.

“More like what,” he allows. “Although I suppose who works as well. Flint, if you really care to know.”

Lucy crosses further into the alleyway to settle next to him. In her mind, connections snap together like puzzle pieces—the things Miranda had said about Sam, Miranda and Flint, the way Flint had looked at Sam when they’d first entered the office earlier. It all makes sense now.

“How come you’re hiding out here? Don’t you have a ship to go back to, Captain Bellamy?”

"I was planning on heading back to the Whydah to meet up with your friend Wyatt," Sam acknowledges. "But, well...I didn't want to be in a mood."

"Wyatt?" Sam's eyes meet hers and that too clicks. _Oh._

"Don't worry,” he teases softly. “My offer from earlier still stands." The grin he flashes her is dimmer than before, dulled somewhat by whatever turmoil is lurking just below the surface, but she thinks it's still genuine. 

"At the moment I'm not sure I wouldn't take you up on it," Lucy admits.

“Mr. Flynn as difficult as ever?” Sam asks. “Shame. I thought I’d sorted him rather well earlier.”

“He’s—” Words fail her for a moment as she tries to think how to even begin explaining. “Well, he’s a mess, honestly,” she says finally. "It's not that he doesn't know what he wants because I think he does. But he's so lost and hurt and he's...afraid. So afraid of losing anything else that he won't let himself have anything even if it's right in front of him. Or at least, he was."

"Was?" Sam echoes. "Does that mean he isn't anymore?"

Lucy sighs and leans against the wall next to him, trying not to think of Flynn's mouth on hers, of his broken please, of his head in her lap and the feel of his hair through her fingers. 

"I don't know," she replies. "And I don't know if I have it in me to deal with being yanked around if he hasn't sorted himself out."

Sam nods, his face clouding over as he glances off to the side. 

"I don't blame him for being conflicted," Lucy acknowledges. "I can't be upset that he still loves his wife, but—"

"But you can't spend your life being compared to a ghost," Sam finishes. His voice is quiet enough that it seems only half-directed at her and Lucy can’t help a pang of sympathy.

“Exactly,” she agrees. A beat passes, a single question separates from the never ending pack that plagues her endlessly these days, and she asks before she can talk herself out of it.

“How do you deal with it?” 

“With the ghosts?” Sam clarifies, cutting his eyes to her.

“With the comparisons,” Lucy replies. “With the...insecurity. The waiting. The wondering if you’re enough. All of it.”

To her surprise, Sam chuckles quietly. “I’m not sure my methods would work for you,” he says.

“Tell me anyway.”

He tips his head up toward the stars and his mouth curves, whatever thoughts or memories playing through his head clearly pleasant.

“I make time for people like Wyatt, like you,” he admits. “I flirt whenever the mood strikes me and with whomever I wish. I share my bed openly and honestly and frequently. I make no promises and offer no apologies for who I am. And anyone who would ask me to, if they aren’t willing to do the same, well…”

Sam’s throat works as he swallows, and for an instant as the moon moves out from behind the clouds, the cracks in his carefully cultivated armor are as plain as day.

“There was a time in the past where I was made to feel like nothing. Less than human, unworthy of even the most basic decency. And when I finally escaped that situation, I told myself I would never again suffer anything like that indignity. And so I haven’t. Because I set my own terms for how I choose to interact with the world at large as well as my more...intimate acquaintances.”

“Are you trying to say you don’t get hurt because you keep things casual?” Lucy says skeptically. 

“I’m saying that it’s easier to protect yourself if you’re careful with which parts of yourself you’re willing to give to someone else, casual relationship or not,” Sam corrects. “It’s not about whether I have two partners or a hundred. It’s about the fact that none of them have all of me. As for hurt, well...I get hurt. But I don’t usually mind when I do.”

Lucy considers that, then laughs quietly. “I’m not sure I could have a hundred partners,” she says. “I’m not sure I could have more than one.”

“Well, as I said. My methods may not be the most helpful.”

She glances up at him and bites her lip, the barest hint of a thought forming in the back of her mind. She doesn’t wait for it to evolve any further before she acts.

“Hey, Sam?” 

It’s impulsive, but after everything with Flynn, with Rittenhouse, the desire for something uncomplicated latches onto her consciousness and burrows deep. When he looks down at her curiously, she lifts onto her toes and tips her face up, catching the flicker of understanding in his eyes before he bends to kiss her.

It’s a gentle thing, this kiss. It’s easy and somehow familiar despite never having happened before—two souls recognizing a kindred spirit and coming together, treading softly around the scarred and bruised pieces of the other. 

When Sam wraps his good arm around her to pull her closer, a spark of heat flares up in Lucy’s blood. But it’s distant, dulled—an echo of a possibility rather than new desire—and she sighs and pulls back.

“You know, I don’t believe Wyatt would object if you wanted to accompany me back to the Whydah,” Sam says, his voice rougher, lower, than it had been. The implication, the promise in it, is more than clear. 

(It’s not a wholly untempting thought, but the image of Flynn as she’d left him swims into her mind and gives her pause. Well, that and the fact that sleeping with another one of her teammates would really be asking for disaster)

Lucy leans up and feathers one last kiss against Sam’s lips.

“I should go back inside,” she acknowledges.

“Ah, well,” Sam sighs. “It was worth a shot.”

“Thank you,” she says. “For the talk. And the kiss.”

“Mr. Flynn’s a lucky man,” he replies. “I think he might already know that, but in case he doesn’t, you should remind him.”

Lucy smiles and wraps her arms around herself as she steps back. “Have a good night, Sam.”

“It’s looking up already.” Sam tosses her a wink over his shoulder and heads off towards the beach.

_Dear diary, tonight I kissed Sam Bellamy_ , she thinks as she watches him go, laughter bubbling up inside her. Her teenage self would be so proud.


	11. xi

Flint settles in the corner of the tavern with a drink, grateful that the stormy look on his face at least dissuades anyone from trying to approach him. To say the day so far has been complete shit would almost be an understatement at this point. 

(Sam and Wyatt, Sam getting hurt, more Sam and Wyatt, fighting with Sam...not to mention everything else in between. Yeah, complete shit is an understatement)

It's late enough that the tavern is slowly quieting down, candles growing dimmer and dimmer as the minutes drag on. He should go upstairs, find Miranda, take her home and catch some sleep in a real bed. But he can't quite make himself move—at least not with the specter of his fight with Sam hanging over him. 

(He hadn’t meant anything by what he’d said—at least not the last thing he’d said—but the way Sam had looked at him...he’d misstepped so badly without even realizing. If he wants forgiveness—and he does despite everything—making up for that won’t be easy)

Finally, Flint sighs and drains the rest of his glass before pushing back his chair and heading for the stairs. He stops in the doorway of Eleanor’s office, vacant except for where Miranda is curled up in an armchair with her eyes closed. 

He can’t help staring for a moment, taking in the sight of her, the faint lines etched into her features through exhaustion and grief. It’s not just the loss of Thomas that’s taken its toll. It’s this place, this island. It’s him. 

(If he could turn back time, take that grief away from her, he would give anything. As it is, he at least won’t pass up the chance, however remote, that he might be able to bring Thomas back to them)

“James?” Miranda’s voice is quiet, her eyes half-opened when he refocuses his attention. “You’re back.”

“I am,” Flint acknowledges, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “I went with Miss Preston to rescue Mr. Flynn. They’re safe now.”

“Did you see Samuel?” She asks, shifting to sit up and rubbing at her eyes with one hand.

He pauses for a beat too long and it catches her attention.

“James?” Miranda repeats, warier now that she’s more awake. 

“I saw him,” Flint replies. 

“And?”

He sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. “Can we talk about this another time? It’s late. I should get you home.”

“No, I think we should talk about this now,” she says, getting up from the chair and crossing her arms over her chest. “What happened with Sam?”

“We fought,” Flint admits. “I said some things I—well, I said some things.”

“What things?”

The image of Sam flinching away from him rises in his mind and he winces. Regardless of how he feels about Thomas, that doesn’t mean he wants to hurt Sam. He just can’t seem to stop.

“I’d rather not say.”

Miranda sighs. “Dammit, James.” It’s nearly a curse, but it’s too tired to have much heat behind it. Instead, she sounds more sad and disappointed than angry, which is almost worse. “Would it really be so difficult to stop pushing him away?”

“I’m not—” Flint cuts himself off when she narrows her eyes and switches tracks. “I don’t mean to push him away,” he replies instead. “I don’t mean to hurt him. I just don’t know how to do this. Thomas…”

 _I don’t know how to love someone else the way I loved him_ , he wants to say, but the words stick in his throat. _I don’t know how to be with someone else the way I was with him. Except for you_. 

"It’s okay to move on,” Miranda says quietly. “We can't bring Thomas back."

"What if we could?" Flint says, and Miranda goes statue-still before his eyes. 

"What are you saying?" For the first time since he let Emma go, he feels unsure. 

"I—" Flint looks away, swallowing hard. If there's a chance, even a chance, he'll do anything. But is it really a chance? "The people who've been responsible for everything these past few days, they said they could bring him back."

The blood drains from Miranda's face and her mouth presses into a thin line. 

"James...what did you do?" 

"I let her go," he admits. "Their leader. And..." He trails off, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. 

"And?" Miranda's voice is sharp, her eyes hard. 

"She wants me to hand over Flynn and Miss Preston. If I do they'll bring him back." 

"You can't possibly be considering this.” It’s an immediate response, icy and hard, and it’s Flint’s turn to stare at her. As unsure as he might be, as conflicted, he wasn't expecting her to be so against the idea. To take such a hard line when it's about Thomas...

"How many lives have I ended for our revenge?" He snaps without thinking. "For you? What's a few more to bring him back?"

"These people tried to kill you," Miranda argues. "They tried to kill Sam. You don't know what they want Lucy and Flynn for—what if they want to kill them too? You're really fine with that?"

"I don't see why you're not," Flint shoots back. "We just met them. Why do you care so much?"

"Because they're just like us! Don't you see that?"

Flint rolls his eyes. Lucy and Flynn are similar to them maybe, but that doesn't matter. They're still just two people who fell into his life yesterday and, quite frankly, have caused nothing but trouble since they showed up. 

"I'm doing this for us," he replies. 

"You're doing this for you," Miranda corrects. "If you think this is really something I could ever want, you don't know me at all."

"I can't believe we're even fighting about this. It's for Thomas. But I suppose since you've clearly moved on so easily—"

Flint hears the slap before the sting of it registers. 

"How dare you." Miranda's voice trembles with emotion, but remains soft. Somehow it's worse than if she just shouted at him. 

"Thomas was my husband," she continues. " _My_ husband. I loved him long before you came into our lives and if things had gone differently, if it had been you we lost instead, I would have loved him long after."

Regret drops into his stomach like a stone. "Miranda—"

"No," she snaps, pushing aside his hand when he reaches for her. "No, I get to say this. We could have had a life in the colonies, you and I. We could have gone anywhere. And instead I gave up that life so we could come here. So I could live as much as your widow as your wife. I gave up everything for you. So don't you dare talk to me about what I'm willing to do for the people I love. Don't you dare, James."

There are tears in her eyes that are likely as much from anger as they are from grief, but she doesn't let them fall. 

"Thomas is dead." Flint wants to reach for her when her voice breaks on the last syllable, but the chances of her allowing him to touch her at the moment are...slim at best. "Whatever magic or other strange power you think these people have to bring him back is a fairytale at best and more than likely an outright lie. And if you trade Lucy's life, Mr. Flynn's life, for something so impossible, I...well. I don't know what I'll do exactly, but you can be sure it won't involve sitting idly by and going on as if nothing has changed."

“Miranda…”

Miranda takes a step back, then a deep breath to compose herself before standing up straight. "I'm going home," she announces. 

"Miranda," Flint sighs. "It's late. Please just—"

"I don't care," she insists. "I’m done fighting with you. I'm going home. To sleep in my own bed. And in case it isn't clear, that is not a place you are welcome tonight."

Miranda crosses decisively to the doorway before he can say anything else, but she pauses with her hand on the doorknob and glances back at him. 

"I love him," she says quietly. "Samuel. And I know you do as well."

Flint's tongue goes leaden in his mouth as he drops his gaze to the floor, flushing with shame. 

"We could be happy," she adds. "The three of us. Just think about it."

She's gone before he can call her back, before he can come up with anything that might have even a chance of getting her to stay. 

He wants to scream, to shout, to throw things, to break them. Inside, he’s a swirling cyclone of rage and frustration and beneath that...beneath that is pain. Beneath that are the shattered remains of the man once known as James McGraw. 

That man could have loved Sam better. That man certainly loved Miranda better.

James Flint, well...he was never meant to love anyone.

“Fuck,” Flint swears quietly. He takes the chair, setting his head in his hands. 

He doesn’t move for a long while.


	12. xii.

Wyatt wakes to the crash of waves and the squawk of birds, and it takes him a moment to reorient himself. At his side, Sam is stretched out on his stomach, freeing his shoulder with its jagged line of precise stitches to the air. Wyatt's own back is pressed firmly against the side wall, the bed clearly not designed to fit two grown men, but he can't seem to mind the close quarters. 

(Last night...he'd almost fallen asleep waiting for Sam to get back, but he's very glad he didn't. He shivers as the memories rush back into his mind—Sam's mouth on his, the way he'd touched him, the look in his eyes when Wyatt had sunk to his knees, dark with desire and glittering in the dim light from the single candle—)

Sam shifts and Wyatt's focus snaps back to the present. When he tries to push himself up, his face twists in pain and Wyatt gently traces the line of his spine. 

"Easy there," he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep and disuse. Sam turns on his side instead of sitting up and reaches out only to make a face and pull back from the stiffness in his arm and shoulder. 

"How are you feeling?" Wyatt asks. 

"Bloody fucking Vane," Sam grumbles, tucking his face into Wyatt's neck when he moves close enough. "Good morning, by the way."

“Morning,” Wyatt replies. He slings an arm over Sam’s waist and nearly sighs at the warmth of the other man next to him. 

_When was the last time he’d been this close to someone?_

For Sam, the answer was probably far sooner...which annoyingly brings Flint into Wyatt’s thoughts. 

(It’s not that he has anything against Sam having other partners—they’ve only just met after all—but Flint, god, the way he’d acted the night before...well, it’s clear to Wyatt that there’s something there beyond a casual fling)

Wyatt clears his throat and shifts as much as he can to get more comfortable. 

"You and Flint..." Sam leans over and cuts him off with a kiss. When he pulls back he stays close, curling his fingers into the short hairs at the nape of Wyatt's neck. 

"If you really want to know, I'll tell you," he acknowledges. "But I do try not to make a habit of talking about other partners when I'm in bed with someone."

_Does he really want to know?_

_No, not really._

“We could also not talk at all,” Wyatt suggests, ducking his head to kiss Sam’s neck.

Sam grins and his fingers tighten in Wyatt’s hair.

“Aye. So we could.”

He’s still grinning when Wyatt kisses him again.

* * *

Flint doesn’t sleep much. With his fights the night before thoroughly at the front of his mind, he barely manages to doze for an hour or so after closing his eyes before he gets up again. Sam won’t take kindly to being interrupted on the Whydah no doubt and Miranda isn’t likely to want to see him again so soon either...but it’s worth a shot if he can convince her to forgive him.

Miranda it is then.

It’s fully light by the time he reaches her house, although it’s still early—the house is quiet and still, as is the surrounding area. At first he considers coming back later—it won’t do to wake Miranda up if she’s still asleep when she’s already upset with him—but he steps inside anyway.

Except...Miranda isn’t anywhere to be found. Not in the kitchen or the parlor or her bedroom. The bed doesn’t even look like it’s been slept in. 

Flint tries not to panic. 

"Miranda?"

"This is a lovely house," comes the response in a voice that's decidedly not Miranda's. Flint goes cold when Emma steps around the corner. "Very different from where she lived in London, I'm sure. But it's...cozy."

"Where's Miranda?" Flint growls, his hand moving towards his sword. For her part, Emma merely raises an eyebrow and gives him a decidedly unimpressed look. 

"I wouldn't, if I were you," she says, nodding toward the weapon. "The thing is, if you hurt me, you'll never see Lady Hamilton again. And I don't think that's what you want."

"And what do _you_ want?" 

"The same thing I wanted yesterday," Emma replies. "Lucy Preston and Garcia Flynn."

"I was already cooperating with you," Flint snarls. "There was no need—"

"There was every need," Emma corrects. "You may have been cooperating, but who knows if you would have changed your mind. We prefer more...certain outcomes. Why use the carrot or the stick when using both together is so much more effective?"

"You fucking bitch."

Emma shrugs. "I've been called worse."

Flint wants to kill her, wants to make her bleed for even daring to touch Miranda, for using the one person he has left who knows all of him as a bargaining chip. But he can’t risk it.

He burns.

(He also wants to scream because if he hadn’t fought with her, if he hadn’t been so stupid, they might have gone off together instead. And then she would still be home)

He doesn’t have a choice.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Bring Miss Preston to The Wrecks by sundown,” Emma instructs. “Either bring Flynn or kill him, I don’t much care, but if he’s dead I want proof. Do that for me and you’ll get your precious Lady Hamilton back.”

“And you won’t hurt her?” Flint asks.

Emma’s mouth curls up into what could be a smile if it weren’t so cold. “I’m not a monster, Captain Flint,” she replies. 

_Aren’t you?_

Flint swallows hard and Emma slips past him to the door.

“The Wrecks at sundown, Captain,” she repeats. And then she’s gone and he’s left alone in the suddenly far too silent house.

_Shit, he’s done it now._

The barest hints of a plan start to form in the back of his mind—Flint paces as they develop further, as at least the first thing he needs becomes perfectly clear. 

He leaves without another thought.

* * *

They should probably get up. Scratch that, they should definitely get up. Lucy, Flynn, Rufus, Rittenhouse...all very important concerns. 

It's only that Wyatt can't seem to focus on that when Sam's hands are on his ass. 

They’re maybe just a little distracting. 

Wyatt swears when Sam's tongue traces the line of his abs—Sam laughs and looks up at him with dark eyes, amusement and desire sparking in their depths. 

"Something you needed?" He teases. Wyatt flings an arm over his eyes and groans. 

"That was a terrible line you know," he points out. Sam's answering grin is as sharp as his teeth when he nips Wyatt's hip. 

"And yet, somehow I don't think you mind."

"Tease." 

Sam hums in acknowledgment and repeats his attentions on Wyatt's other side. 

"That doesn't sound like a complaint," he replies. 

"It could be," Wyatt argues, undercut by the breathless quality of his voice. 

Sam chuckles and dips his head...which of course is exactly when the shouting starts. 

"What the hell?" Wyatt moves his arm and starts to sit up, only stopped by Sam's hands on his hips.

"Ignore it," Sam says. "It's probably nothing."

"Bellamy!" It's Flint's voice. "Sam—touch me again, Noland, and you'll lose that hand—Sam!"

"I told you, the Captain is indisposed—"

"Sam! We need to talk!" 

Wyatt rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and sighs. He's really starting to hate that guy. 

A pained look of frustration crosses Sam's face as the scene outside of the cabin continues. Finally, he swears heavily and sits up, jaw clenching as he grabs his pants off the floor and tugs them on. Wyatt reaches for his own pants more slowly as Sam strides over to the cabin door and wrenches it open. 

"Flint!" He shouts. "Unhand my quartermaster. Now what the fuck is so goddamn important—"

"Sam." 

Wyatt can't see Flint's face, but he hears the way the man's voice cracks on the syllable. Beyond that, he sees the way the color drains from Sam's face, leaving him ashen in the morning light. 

"What happened?" Sam asks quietly. "Where is she?" 

“They took her,” Flint replies. “Rittenhouse. They took her. Sam, I can’t—”

Wyatt’s not sure if it’s _I can’t live without her_ or _I can’t do this alone_ or something else entirely, but for once he’s sympathetic. 

“You’d best come in then,” he says, stepping aside to let Flint into the cabin. “Tell me everything.”

“Everything” turns out to be a hell of a lot. As Flint explains how he’d gone with Lucy to rescue Flynn, the deal he’d made with Emma to hand them over to Rittenhouse, Wyatt’s sympathy vanishes. As for Sam, the panic and fear that had been written across his face gives way to a thunderous black cloud of rage. 

"You're a bastard, Flint," Sam snarls as soon as he finishes speaking. "You left her—"

" _She_ left!" Flint argues. "She left. She didn't want me to follow her. What was I supposed to do?"

"Here's a thought—not being a dick and pushing away everyone who loves you might be a good place to start."

"Hey!" Wyatt interjects, regretting his choice as soon as both heads swivel to him. "Not that I wouldn't agree with your assessment, Sam," he acknowledges. "But maybe this isn't the time."

Sam glares at Flint, then turns away to snatch a mostly clean shirt from a chest near the desk. If he's muttering curses under his breath the whole time, well, neither Wyatt nor Flint are of a mind to comment. 

Wyatt busies himself getting dressed as well, picking his shirt up off the floor and tugging it on before shoving a sword into his belt. He pretends not to notice the way Flint reaches for Sam only to drop his hand when the other man looks up. He also pretends not to listen when Flint speaks again, focusing hard on his gun as if the routine of maintenance checks might block out any other sound. 

"Sam...thank you," Flint says quietly. 

"I'm not doing this for you," Sam replies. It's not a lie, not really. But Wyatt thinks it also might be just a little bit. 

"I know."

Wyatt tucks the gun into his waistband.

To think, the day had started off so well.

* * *

Lucy wakes up slowly, the fog of sleep clouding her brain protesting against the light streaming through the windows and the bustle of the street below. In the night she'd apparently tucked herself against Flynn's side and tossed one leg over his, and he's watching her with half-lidded eyes when hers flutter open. There's a quiet caution in his gaze, uncertainty slipping through his carefully crafted mask of indifference. 

The haze from the morning light gives the room a dreamlike quality, as if the two of them have slipped into some sort of liminal space. Instead of saying anything, afraid of shattering the fragile atmosphere, Lucy tips her face up and kisses him. 

It could be minutes or it could be hours that the two of them spend like that, mouths catching and releasing, soft and sweet and unhurried, far removed from the desperation of the night before. Lucy pulls back when Flynn splays a hand over her hip, but she stays close, reaching up to brush his hair off his forehead. 

"How's your head?" She asks. 

"It hurts," he acknowledges. 

"Too much to talk?"

Several things flicker over Flynn's face at once—regret, shame, uncertainty—and Lucy settles her hand on his cheek and kisses him again. 

"Can we stay like this?" He asks when she pulls back, his hand shifting from her hip to her lower back. 

"Sure," Lucy agrees. She rests her head on his shoulder and curls tight into his side. Sex may be off the table for a while, but she's not going to turn down being held, especially if it makes it easier for him to say what he needs to. "As long as we talk."

He talks.

* * *

As it turns out, rolling off a bench is a good way to wake yourself up. Also, sleeping on a bench is a good way to get a crick in your neck and a thousand other aches all over your body. Plus, Rufus is not entirely convinced something didn't die in his mouth. 

(Should he have had as much to drink last night as he had? Probably not. But dealing with Charles Vane made it more than necessary)

Basically, it's not the best way to start the day. 

"Psst. Mr. Carlin," a voice hisses from behind the stairs. 

(And apparently it's not going to get better) 

Wyatt's nowhere to be found, same goes for Sam and Miranda. Rufus hadn't seen Lucy, Flynn, or Flint before he fell asleep, but the fact that he can't see any of them either is a bit concerning. 

Although...they could just all be off getting laid. That wouldn't surprise him. 

"Mr. Carlin," the voice hisses again and Rufus heads towards it, one hand creeping towards his gun just in case. 

The voice turns out to belong to Mr. Scott. 

"Uh, can I help you?" Rufus asks. 

The other man looks him over—whatever he sees he clearly finds wanting. Rufus tries not to be offended. 

"I don't like you," Mr. Scott says. "You and your friends are trouble."

"...sorry?"

The man rolls his eyes. "I'm not telling you this to help you," he replies. "I'm telling you because I'd like to see you go as soon as possible so things here can return to normal."

Rufus holds up his hands. "I promise I will make no assumptions that you like us."

"Last night, two men and a woman grabbed Miranda Barlow off the street," he explains. "I followed them to The Wrecks where I saw the strangest thing. A great white sphere, aglow as if from the inside."

_The Mothership._

Scott reads the recognition on his face and nods. 

"You know it then? I thought you might."

"It's a...ship of sorts," Rufus acknowledges. Damn, Wyatt would be really helpful right now. "Did you happen to notice if anyone was guarding it?"

"I believe the woman and the men who were with her are all that remain of their party," Scott replies. 

_Right._

_The Mothership. Christ._

_And all it needs is a pilot._

Nerves twist in his stomach, but Rufus makes up his mind. 

"Can you show me how to get there?"


	13. xiii.

“The first time I read the journal I thought it was impossible,” Flynn says quietly. Lucy’s long since stopped paying attention to how much time has passed—the conversation has changed tracks several times before ending up in its current place, but she doesn’t mind. The fact that they’re talking at all is a bit of a miracle in itself. 

“Other parts of it made sense, but the thought that I could—with someone else—” His voice cracks.

“It’s okay,” Lucy replies. “Take your time.”

Flynn clears his throat and shifts closer, his voice muffled by her hair when he finally does speak again. 

“I separated things out in my head,” he admits. “I told myself that everything else could be true except that. But that was...well, it was almost as much of a fool’s errand as thinking I could take on Rittenhouse alone.”

“What you said back in 1780…” Lucy trails off as the memory takes hold.

_What kind of husband or father could I be after what I’ve done?_

“I meant it,” Flynn acknowledges. 

“And it wasn’t just about her.”

It’s not a question, but he answers anyway.

“No. No, it wasn’t.”

Lucy bites her lip as silence falls, then shifts back just enough so she can see his face.

“You’re not a bad man, Garcia,” she says, bringing a hand up to his cheek. He flinches, but doesn’t pull away.

“You’re _not_ ,” she insists. “You meant what you said in 1780, well I meant what I said in 1954. We’ve all done terrible things. Every single one of us. It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t get to be happy.”

Flynn’s hand flexes on her hip and his exhale nearly makes his whole body quake.

“I _miss_ them,” he confesses. The words fall from his lips with all the weight of a collapsing structure, and Lucy tucks her face against his neck when her eyes burn in sympathy. She wonders if he’s ever said that aloud before.

“I know,” she breathes.

“I can’t just forget—”

“I wouldn’t want you to.”

_So, where does that leave us?_ It seems as though neither of them are willing to ask. Lucy isn’t sure either of them have an answer even if they were.

Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day. 

“We should get up,” Lucy suggests. “See what the others are up to. If we can help it doesn’t do any good to stay shut up here all day.”

Flynn nods and pulls away—she misses the warmth of him instantly.

_Later_ , she thinks. _We can talk more later._

She ignores the voice that adds, _hopefully._

* * *

There are some things no one can tell you about being a third wheel. You just have to experience them for yourself.

The awkwardness is to be expected—it’s basically inherent in the concept. But as far as Wyatt’s aware, there’s no “how to” guide for navigating the specific brand of awkwardness that comes from being stuck with the guy you slept with last night and his sort-of boyfriend when the two of them are definitely fighting. In fact, Wyatt’s not sure “awkward” even covers it. It’s more like a special kind of hell that’s designed with the sole purpose of making his day completely terrible.

It’s basically the worst. And given the amount of time he’s had to spend with Flynn lately, that’s saying something. 

By the time the three of them arrive at the brothel, the tension is so thick that Wyatt leaps at the chance to go upstairs and collect Lucy and Flynn. Flint is apologetic and worried, Sam is a mix of righteous fury and indignation, and Wyatt wouldn’t mind a drink even though it’s not even noon. 

Yeah, five minutes to himself is absolutely necessary. 

“I’ll get them,” Flint says. 

Wyatt snorts. “No. _I’ll get them._ Trust me, if you try and go in there and explain that you’re in a mess because you planned to sell them out, Flynn’s going to kick your ass. At least they trust me.”

Flint makes a face, but can’t argue. Sam doesn’t try either, although it’s more than clear from his body language that being left alone with Flint is just about the last thing he wants at the moment.

_Sorry, Sam_ , Wyatt thinks. And then he escapes into the brothel.

* * *

"Sam..."

It takes exactly forty seconds for Flint to speak after Wyatt leaves. Sam glances over at Flint when he trails off, a small frisson of irritation tightening his jaw as he takes in the apology written across the other man's face. 

"We're not talking about this now," he says firmly, hoping to cut off that line of discussion at the knees. It works about as well as anything ever works with Flint—that is, not at all. 

"I didn't mean for any of this to happen," Flint replies. "And I didn't—what I said last night, it wasn't—"

"I don't care."

“Sam—”

“ _Flint_ ,” Sam snaps. “Don’t. Push me.” 

He doesn’t _like_ being mad at James, but at the moment he’s furious. Furious and scared—desperately afraid—because he _loves_ Miranda. He _loves_ her, arguably even more than he loves Flint himself. He loved her first and he loves her easiest. 

Loving James Flint is like loving a tempest. Wild and uncontrollable and as likely to kill you as it is to carry you safely through. Flint is sharp edges and stinging words, secrets and shadows and dark. And that’s not always a bad thing, but it can make him very difficult to love sometimes.

Miranda though...Miranda is home. Fresh linens and sunlight and softness, and although she has her own hard places, calcified over time and sharpened by grief, they match one another. Loving her is the easiest thing in the world. And if he were to lose her…

_No._

“I’m _sorry_.”

Sam clenches his jaw again. “I don’t forgive you,” he replies evenly, a feat given how wrecked he feels inside. “Not right now. And if we lose her because of this, I never will.”

“Sam—” He doesn’t have to look at Flint’s face to see how gutted he is, but he doesn’t budge.

“I said we’re not doing this right now. I meant it.” And then, without another word, he turns on his heel and heads inside after Wyatt.

* * *

Miranda wakes slowly, the throbbing in her temples a clear reminder of the fact that she’d been hit over the head the night before. The air is different now—the scent of the sea is stronger, but there’s something else as well, rotting wood, dead things…

_The Wrecks._

It’s fitting. 

“Good morning,” a voice calls from the corner. The woman’s voice is pleasant, but the look in her eyes is not, especially not given the casual way her hand glides over the pistol in her lap. Although Miranda isn’t bound, it’s perfectly clear that any attempt to escape her current situation would not be taken well.

“Who are you?”

“You can call me Emma, Lady Hamilton,” the woman replies, the ease with which her former title is used sending a shiver down Miranda’s spine. 

“You’re the one who made the deal with James,” she says. “You tried to kill Sam.”

Emma makes a face. “Not my best decision,” she acknowledges. “Honestly, I should have left well enough alone there. It’s not as though he’ll be around for much longer anyway.”

Miranda’s heart skips. 

"What are you talking about?"

Emma's lips curve up, something hard, cruel, about the smile. 

"I've spent so long in the past I almost forget what it's like not to know the future," she muses, and Miranda isn't sure if that's meant for her or not.

"I don't know what you're planning, but—"

"Oh, it's not what _I'm_ planning, dear," Emma laughs. "That's the thing about the sea—it can be so temperamental. Even for Sam Bellamy."

_It’s a trick_ , she tells herself. _A lie._

_No one can know the future._

(She knows that all too well)

Miranda takes a breath, pushing aside the panic in favor of stoking the rage that comes after it. 

“He’ll kill you,” she promises. 

Emma hums. “Which one?” She asks. “Flint or Bellamy? Quite the interesting triad you have going on there, by the way.”

_Either. Both._

For a moment, Miranda imagines closing the space between them and clawing Emma’s eyes out and revels in the satisfaction it would bring. As it is, she stays still, looking away from the other woman and refusing to answer.

“I see,” Emma says, standing up and brushing the sand from her pants, tucking her pistol into her waistband. “Well. We’ll see about that.”

_Yes_ , Miranda thinks viciously as Emma disappears. _Yes, we will._


End file.
